2007 Beyond The Green Myth. Borneo S Hun

Edited by Peter Sercombe
and Bernard Sellato
and Sellato
Sercombe
Borneo, with its tales of White Rajahs and tribes of headhunters,
has long excited the Western imagination. Today, however,
there is another, ‘green’, imagination at work. Mention of the
island is more likely to evoke images of tropical deforestation
and concern about the cruel dispossession and displacement
of indigenous peoples who once lived in relative harmony with
their environment.
It is perhaps not surprising, then, that most books dealing
BEYOND THE GREEN MYTH

with the nomadic hunter-gatherers of Borneo have principally
been pictorial studies. There is indeed a dearth of scholarship
regarding these peoples, a situation that this first ever, compre-
hensive review of nomadic groups in the Borneo rain forest aims
to rectify.
Presenting a wealth of new research contributed by an inter-
national team of scholars, the volume covers all those parts of
Borneo where nomads (called Penan, Punan or by various other
names) are or were known to exist, and provides a comparative
historical-ecological study of these groups.
The study is primarily concerned with issues of modernization
(including the monetary economy, formalised institutions,
centralized power structures, contractual relationships and
extraction activities) and development policies. The impact
of these policies is analysed with special regard to the natural
environment inhabited by these small-scale societies, as well as
the use of its resources.
The book has no stiff theoretical orientation but informs
ongoing debates about changing forms of ethnicity, relations
between minorities and the state, minorities’ rights and survival,
native discourse, the sustainability of tropical forest use, and
the neo-romantic environmentalist myth of so-called wise
traditional peoples.

www.niaspress.dk
Borneo’s Hunter-Gatherers in the Twenty-First Century
Sercombe_reprint-pbk-cover.indd 1 07/06/2010 14:44

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18. Asian Perceptions of Nature Ole Bruun and Arne Kalland (eds)
19. Imperial Policy and Southeast Asian Nationalism Hans Antlöv and Stein
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20. The Village Concept in the Transformation of Rural Southeast Asia
Mason C. Hoadley and Christer Gunnarsson (eds)
21. Identity in Asian Literature Lisbeth Littrup (ed.)
22. Mongolia in Transition Ole Bruun and Ole Odgaard (eds)
23. Asian Forms of the Nation Stein Tønnesson and Hans Antlöv (eds)
24. The Eternal Storyteller Vibeke Børdahl (ed.)
25. Japanese Influences and Presences in Asia Marie Söderberg and Ian Reader (eds)
26. Muslim Diversity Leif Manger (ed.)
27. Women and Households in Indonesia Juliette Koning, Marleen Nolten,
Janet Rodenburg and Ratna Saptari (eds)
28. The House in Southeast Asia Stephen Sparkes and Signe Howell (eds)
29. Rethinking Development in East Asia Pietro P. Masina (ed.)
30. Coming of Age in South and Southeast Asia Lenore Manderson and
Pranee Liamputtong (eds)
31. Imperial Japan and National Identities in Asia, 1895–1945 Li Narangoa
and Robert Cribb (eds)
32. Contesting Visions of the Lao Past Christopher Goscha and Søren Ivarsson (eds)
33. Reaching for the Dream Melanie Beresford and Tran Ngoc Angie (eds)
34. Mongols from Country to City Ole Bruun and Li Naragoa (eds)
35. Four Masters of Chinese Storytelling Vibeke Børdahl, Fei Li and Huang
Ying (eds)
36. The Power of Ideas Claudia Derichs and Thomas Heberer (eds)
37. Beyond the Green Myth Peter Sercombe and Bernard Sellato (eds)
38. Kinship and Food in South-East Asia Monica Janowski and Fiona
Kerlogue (eds)
39. Exploring Ethnic Diversity in Burma Mikael Gravers (ed.)
40. Politics, Culture and Self: East Asian and North European Attitudes
Geir Helgesen & Søren Risbjerg Thomsen (eds)
41. Beyond Chinatown Mette Thunø (ed.)
Hunter-Gatherers of Borneo in the
Twenty-First Century
Edited by
Peter G. Sercombe & Bernard Sellato
Nordic Institute of Asian Studies
Studies in Asian Topics Series, No. 37
First published in 2007 by NIAS Press

Nordic Institute of Asian Studies
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While copyright in the volume as a whole is vested in the Nordic Institute of

Asian Studies, copyright in the individual papers belongs to their authors.
No paper may be reproduced in whole or in part without the express
permission of the author or publisher.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Beyond the green myth : Borneo’s hunter-gatherers in the

21st century. - (NIAS studies in Asian topics ; 37)
1.Nomads - Borneo 2.Hunting and gathering societies -
Borneo
I.Sercombe, Peter G. II.Sellato, Bernard
305.9’06918
Hbk: 978-87-91114-84-7
Pbk: 978-87-7694-018-7
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ix
FOREWORD x
By Kirk Endicott
1. Introduction: Borneo, Hunter-Gatherers, and Change 1

By B. Sellato and P.G. Sercombe
2. Penan 50
By Rodney Needham
3. Resourceful Children of the Forest: The Kalimantan Punan

through the Twentieth Century 61
By Bernard Sellato
4. The Emergence of the Ethnic Category Bhuket:

Diversity and the Collective Hunter-gatherer
Identity in Borneo 91
By Shanthi Thambiah
5. The Punan from the Tubu’ River, East Kalimantan:

A Native Voice on Past, Present, and
Future Circumstances 110
By K.A. Klimut and Rajindra K. Puri
6. Stuck at the Bottom: Opportunity Structures

and Punan Malinau Identity 135
By Lars Kaskija
7. Nested Disputes: Building Mediation Procedures

for the Punan in West Kalimantan 160
By Mering Ngo
v
Beyond the Green Myth
8. Game, Pets, and Animal Husbandry among Penan

and Punan Groups 177
By Stefan Seitz
9. History and the Punan Vuhang: Response to

Economic and Resource Tenure Change 192
By Henry Chan
10. Continuity and Adaptation among the Penan of Brunei 227

By Peter G. Sercombe
11. Penan Ethnobotany: Subsistence Strategy and

Breadth of Knowledge 262
By Robert A. Voeks
12. Prior Transcripts, Divergent Paths: Resistance and

Acquiescence to Logging in Sarawak, East Malaysia 289
By J. Peter Brosius
References 334
Contributors 370
Index 375
vi
MAPS
1.1. Area of Known Past and Present

Hunting-Gathering Groups 4
1.2. Location of Groups Studied 10
3.1. Location of Three Clusters Studied 63
3.2. The Malinau River Area 65
3.3. The Kayan-Tabang-Segah-Kelai Area 67
3.4. The Upper Kapuas River Area 69
4.1. Bukat Settlements 93
5.1. Punan Tubu’ Settlements 111
6.1. Punan Malinau Settlements 138
7.1. The Bungan Area 162
9.1. Punan Vuhang Exploitation Grounds During

Nomadic Times 194
9.2. Sedentary Punan Vuhang Regular Exploitation Grounds 198
10.1. Location of Penan Sukang 228
12.1. Distribution of Eastern and Western Penan in Sarawak 291
TABLES
7.1. Rice Sufficiency among the Punan in Tanjung

Lokang and Nanga Bungan 166
7.2. Sources of Income in Tanjung Lokang and Nanga Bungan 167
7.3. Comparison of Bird’s Nest Yields 169
vii
11.1. Plant Species Named and Identified as Useful by Penan 270–271
11.2. Plant Species Named and Identified as Useful by Dusun 272–279
11.3. Plant Species with Cultural Significance for

both Dusun and Penan 280
11.4. Differences in Culturally Significant Species for

Dusun and Penan 281
11.5. Utility Functions of Significant Plant Species for

Dusun and Penan 282
FIGURE
9.1. Punan Vuhang Calendar Synchronised with

Major Flowering and Fruiting Seasons 203
viii
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
We are pleased to extend our heartfelt thanks to Professors Ida Nicolaisen,

Kirk Endicott, Michael Dove, and Clifford Sather for their encouragement and
support; to Kirk Endicott who responded with enthusiasm when we asked him
to write a foreword to this book; to Lars Kaskija and Rajindra Puri for their
useful input to our introductory chapter; to Professor Rodney Needham and Dr
J. Peter Brosius, as well as the Human Relations Area Files Press, Dr David Akin,
the journal Comparative Studies in Society and History, and Cambridge University
Press for their kind permission to reprint the two earlier articles included here;
to Jayl Langub, who should have participated in this book; to two anonymous
reviewers for their extensive and pertinent critiques and suggestions; to Janice
Leon, Leena Höskuldson, and the publishers at NIAS Press for their patience and
equanimity; to Kelly Donovan, Sabine Partouche, and Fred and Patrick Lépine
for their redrawing of some of the maps; and to the Punan, Penan (Western and
Eastern), Bukat, and other communities of nomads and former nomads in all
parts of Borneo, with whom we have all been acquainted for extended periods of
time, and whose warm hospitality we, contributors and editors alike, have had
the chance to enjoy. Needless to say, without the friendly assistance of scores
of informants in many settlements, the present book would never have come
into being.
ix
FOREWORD
By Kirk M. Endicott
For most of human history, our ancestors supported themselves by hunting,

fishing, and gathering naturally occurring foods and resources. The hunting and
gathering way of life has not been static, however. Plant cultivation and animal
husbandry arose about 10,000 years ago in the Middle East and slightly later in
China, Mesoamerica, and New Guinea, and food-producing societies expanded
rapidly thereafter. Farmers and pastoralists soon became important components
of the environments of the remaining hunting and gathering societies. Some
hunting and gathering societies on the borders of the agricultural expansion
were absorbed, others exterminated, and still others displaced into regions that were
inaccessible or unsuitable for food production. However, many of the hunting and
gathering societies that persisted into the late twentieth century established trade
relations with nearby food-producing peoples and adjusted their social and economic
practices as necessary to maintain these mutually beneficial ties.
Today the world’s few remaining hunting and gathering societies are rapidly
disappearing, either being driven to extinction – like the Batak of Palawan Island,
The Philippines – or transformed by external pressures into farmers, commodity
producers, or wage labourers. The lands on which these peoples live and the resources
found there are now coveted by powerful business interests, such as mining and
logging companies, and by national governments eager to turn resources into profits.
In Southeast Asia only a handful of tiny groups continue to practise full-time hunting
and gathering, though others have only recently given it up. One of the most urgent
needs in anthropology is to understand and document the hunting and gathering
way of life, in all its variations, before it disappears entirely.
The island of Borneo – which is politically divided today among the nations
of Malaysia, Indonesia, and Brunei – is home to a significant portion of Southeast
Asia’s current and recent hunting and gathering societies. Yet, until the last few
decades, scholars knew little about their ways of life. As late as the early twentieth
x
Foreword
century, the far interior of Borneo, the homeland of the nomadic hunter-gatherers,
was largely terra incognita to the outside world. British and Dutch colonial
administrators encountered indigenous village-dwelling farming peoples – the
so-called ‘Dayak’ – in coastal areas and on the lower reaches of the main rivers,
but their contact with hunter-gatherers of the interior was sporadic and fleeting.
Intensive modern ethnographic fieldwork on Bornean hunter-gatherers did not
begin until the early 1950s, with Rodney Needham’s studies of the Penan of
Sarawak. Only since the 1970s have a substantial number of professionally
trained anthropologists focused their attention on the Penan and other Bornean
hunting and gathering peoples. The contributors to this volume make up a large
portion of the scholars currently studying hunter-gatherers in Borneo. Although
their chapters focus on different groups and address different research questions,
they all provide valuable new information on the ways of life of Bornean hunter-
gatherers and the ways they have adapted to their rapidly changing circumstances
over the past few centuries. Their research also sheds new light on such important
theoretical questions as whether the hunter-gatherers of Borneo became nomads
in order to collect forest produce for trade and whether hunter-gatherers in tropical
rainforests can sustain themselves on wild resources alone.
The picture that emerges in this volume conforms, in part, to the standard
image of nomadic tropical forest-dwelling hunter-gatherers, whether they live in
Africa, South America, South Asia, or Southeast Asia. Like other such peoples,
Borneo’s hunter-gatherers live in small, flexible, closely related groups (bands).
Those who still depend mainly on wild foods occupy temporary shelters and
move frequently to gain access to variable food sources. They are egalitarian and
cooperative in their social relations, and they share food and other consumable
resources throughout the community. They value mobility over material
possessions, have flexible notions of ownership of land and resources, and
maintain a readiness to exploit unexpected and transient opportunities. In short,
they typify what James Woodburn calls ‘immediate-return foragers’, those who
gather the food and materials that they need on a regular basis and consume
them immediately, rather than storing and rationing them. One of the major
contributions of this book is its demonstration that the Bornean hunter-gatherers’
immediate-return approach to life is rooted in a set of values, attitudes, and
practices that tends to persist even among those who have settled down and
adopted some farming.
However, these chapters also show that Bornean hunter-gatherers contradict
the stereotype of nomadic, immediate-return tropical forest hunter-gatherers in
interesting ways. For example, they do not always harvest their resources in a
xi
sustainable manner; under some circumstances their immediate-return approach

leads them to exhaust a resource, as they did with some sources of incense wood
and edible birds’ nests when competing with outside collectors. Also, contrary to
Western assumptions, hunter-gatherers do not seem to know as much about
rainforest plants as some of the local farming groups, apparently because the
hunter-gatherers do not use as many different types of plants as foods, medicines,
and building materials. And not all Bornean hunter-gatherers are meek and non-
violent; some groups have aggressively defended themselves and their lands from
intruding groups of Dayak headhunters. Most importantly, despite their
immediate-return approach to life, they are not averse to settling down and
taking up farming under favourable conditions. When farming, however, they
have often retained the values and practices that mark them as hunter-gatherers,
such as a readiness to take up new opportunities as they arise and a level of
mobility that is alien to full-time farmers. This reminds us that the rigid
distinction anthropologists tend to make between hunter-gatherers and farmers,
as categories, does not necessarily exist in actual behaviour.
One unusual feature of the economy of Bornean hunter-gatherers gives them
special importance in the comparative study of tropical rainforest-dwelling hunter-
gatherers in general: their staple carbohydrate is sago palm starch rather than wild
tubers. Extracting starch from the trunks of sago palms may well have formed the
basis of pre-agricultural economies of the earliest human immigrants into eastern
Indonesia and New Guinea. Understanding the sago-based economy of the
Bornean hunter-gatherers may prove to be an invaluable aid to archaeologists
trying to reconstruct the economies of those ancient pioneers.
A striking feature of these chapters is that they take full account of the
distinctive histories of individual hunting and gathering groups. Until recently
anthropologists have tended to ignore the histories of tribal peoples, giving the
impression that these societies were unchanging until disrupted by European
contact. Some of the founding figures in British and American anthropology
deliberately refused to try to reconstruct tribal histories, dismissing orally
transmitted histories as unreliable myths. But since the 1960s, some
anthropologists have worked to restore histories to peoples without written
records by using oral traditions in conjunction with linguistic, archaeological,
and biological evidence and written records from colonial administrators and
other literate outsiders. However, reconstructing the histories of hunting and
gathering peoples has proved especially difficult, as such groups often do not
preserve elaborate oral histories, leave few traces in the archaeological record,
and usually live in areas remote from centres of government and the concerns of
xii
Foreword
record-keeping bureaucrats. Following the lead of co-editor Bernard Sellato, the

authors of this volume have made special efforts to restore histories to the groups
they have studied. They have done this by collecting detailed oral histories from
older people, cross-checking accounts between informants in the same and
different groups, and tying these accounts into events recorded in written records
whenever possible. The results counter the illusion that hunting and gathering
societies were static before European contact and reveal the dynamics of culture
change in these groups. This book documents that some groups have migrated
over long distances, not just moved about in an annual round. Groups have
frequently split or fused, and identities have often changed. Under some
circumstances groups have settled down, and under others they have become
more nomadic. When settled, some have assimilated and merged with nearby
farming peoples, while others have not. And trade relations with outsiders have
varied and fluctuated, ranging from equal partnerships to slavery. Unfortunately,
however, these histories are limited in time depth to the last few centuries.
Answers to such questions as whether all Bornean hunter-gatherers have common
ancestors and whether some or all of them are ultimately descended from farming
peoples must await further evidence and analysis from archaeology, linguistics,
and comparative ethnology.
By providing these histories and, in one memorable chapter, presenting a Punan
leader’s own understanding of their situation, the authors bring out the basic humanity
of the hunting and gathering peoples of Borneo. There is a strong tendency in hunter-
gatherer studies to analyse hunting and gathering groups as though they are like
animal communities, adapting to particular environments in ways determined by
such abstractions as ‘carrying capacity’. This book shows them as the intelligent,
multi-faceted individuals they are, with interests, hopes, and values, making decisions
on the basis of what they know and want. The book also shows that they do not
passively acquiesce to pressure from powerful outsiders, rather they actively manipulate
and negotiate with outsiders in attempting to achieve their goals. For example, they
readily adopt the ideas and rhetoric of environmental non-governmental organisations
(NGOs) when it helps them make claims to land and resources that they value. They
have even adopted new religions and created new customs when they have seen the
need. The histories revealed in this book help to answer the basic questions of why
Borneo’s foraging peoples chose to be hunter-gatherers in the first place and why they
have sometimes chosen to incorporate elements of trade and farming into the
economic mix.
Despite their impressive skills, knowledge, flexibility, and resourcefulness,
the hunting and gathering peoples of Borneo now face formidable challenges to
xiii
their way of life and perhaps to their very existence. As in most other Southeast
Asian countries, Malaysian and Indonesian leaders are eager to generate income
from the lands occupied by their indigenous tribal peoples. As this book shows,
in Borneo logging, mining, and dam construction are rapidly destroying the
forest, land, and rivers that hunter-gatherers depend on for subsistence and trade
goods. In Kalimantan (Indonesian Borneo) land is also being turned over to
immigrants from overpopulated parts of the country, especially Java. In some
places outsiders now compete for resources, such as edible birds’ nests and incense
wood, that were once hunter-gatherer monopolies. The Punan Malinau lament
that they are ‘permanently at the bottom’ of the emerging social order in East
Kalimantan, even below the recent immigrants. This book shows clearly how
national laws and policies often conflict with the needs of hunter-gatherers,
and the authors suggest some of the changes that must be made if they are to
prosper in their new circumstances. Unfortunately, there is ample evidence from
all parts of Borneo that government officials often support the business interests
now destroying the bases of hunting and gathering economies. However,
many well-intentioned officials are simply unaware of the likely consequences of
government actions or inaction. They mistakenly believe, for example, that
hunter-gatherers would be better off practising full-time farming in resettlement
villages near towns than practising a mixed economy in the forested interior.
For the sake of Borneo’s hunting and gathering peoples, let us hope that those
officials will read this book before proceeding with their development plans.
xiv
Chapter 1
INTRODUCTION
Borneo, Hunter-Gatherers, and Change
By B. Sellato and P.G. Sercombe
This book focuses on the nomadic and formerly nomadic groups of

hunter-gatherers of Borneo’s tropical forests, comprising about 30 distinct
clusters, for a total population of some 20,000 people. It presents new research
contributed by scholars who have been and are currently involved in this field, and
most of whom have spent substantial amounts of time with nomadic or formerly
nomadic communities. Covering all those parts of the island where nomadic
groups, called Penan, Punan (or by various other names), are or were known to
exist, it offers a comparative historical–ecological study of these groups, situated
in the political–economic context of modernisation and development policies, the
impact of which is analysed in relation to these societies, especially their effects
on the natural environment and the use of its resources. While not assuming
any stiff theoretical orientation, the volume also informs the ongoing debates
on the changing forms of ethnicity, the relations between minorities and the
state, the minorities’ rights and survival, the sustainability of tropical forest use,
and the neo-romantic environmentalist myth of wise ‘traditional peoples’.
Forest hunter-gatherer groups in Borneo are spread out over Sarawak
(Malaysia), the three northern provinces of Kalimantan (Indonesia), and the
sultanate of Brunei Darussalam, but are absent from Sabah (Malaysia). They are
all of Mongoloid stock and speak languages of the Austronesian family.
Among indigenous groups of Borneo, those that were pursuing and, in rare
cases, continue to practise nomadism have been most affected by the material
and social changes that have come about on the world’s third largest island.
Among others, these changes particularly include the advent of the monetary
1
economy and centralised power structures, the rise of contractual relationships,

and the rapid development of large-scale extraction activities. Remaining
nomadic, shifting to semi-nomadism, or even to a sedentary existence, sometimes
as a result of external forces, are positions that reflect hunter-gatherers’ attitudes
and responses to the inroads of change on Borneo. The aim of this collection is
to both describe and explain the form and manner of directions being taken by
hunting-gathering groups in Borneo at the commencement of the twenty-first
century. The varied contributions consider the extent to which various such
groups have accommodated themselves, or reacted, to new ways of life proposed
to them, whether through religion, economics, cultural realignment, social
organisation, local and regional politics, language, or a combination of these.
While this is not the place for a comprehensive review of hunting-gathering
peoples worldwide (see Lee and Daly 1999), it is important here to provide the
wider Southeast Asian context of Borneo’s forest nomads. Southeast Asia is or was
home to a number of different clusters of forest hunter-gatherers (see Endicott
1999). In mainland Southeast Asia, there are today relatively few such groups;
apart from the Mlabri of Thailand, only the elusive Saoch in Cambodia and
Tac-cui (or Nguoi-La-Vang; see LeBar et al. 1964) in Vietnam can be mentioned.
The Mlabri (Yumbri, Khon Pa, or Phi Tong Luang) live as several scattered groups
in the far north of Thailand, usually above 1,000 m elevation. Traditionally, they
avoided contact with outsiders. They are of Mongoloid stock and speak a
Mon-Khmer language (see Bernatzik 1958, Pookajorn et al. 1992). In Peninsular
Malaysia, there are the Orang Asli, who comprise a variety of different groups,
totalling over 100,000 at the close of the twentieth century (Nagata 1973, Dunn
1975, Carey 1976, Dentan et al. 1997, Nicholas 2000, Lye 1997 and 2001, Nagata
and Dallos 2001, Dallos 2003). Among these, only the so-called Negritos, often
also referred to as Semang, are indisputably hunter-gatherers. They total about
2,500, and are found in the states of Perak, Pahang, and Kelantan (see Schebesta
1928, Evans 1937, Benjamin 1967, 1987, Endicott 1974, 1979, 1984, 1999, 2000).
The Aslian languages form part of the Mon-Khmer family.
Insular Southeast Asia, however, displays a wide array of hunting and gathering
groups. These occur in the Philippine archipelago, Borneo, Celebes (the Toala,
see LeBar 1972), Sumatra (the Kubu or Orang Dalam, see LeBar 1972, Sandbukt
1988, Persoon 1989), and the Moluccas (see Ellen 1988, Taylor 1990). Hunter-
gatherers in the Philippines amount to around 30,000 (see Warren 1964,
Nicolaisen 1974–75, Peterson 1978, Griffin and Estioko-Griffin 1985, Eder 1987,
Griffin and Griffin 1999, Headland and Blood 2002). They are located in the
Visayas (Negros and Panay): the Ata or Ati; in Mindanao: the Mamanua and Ata;
2
Introduction
in Palawan: the Batak; in Luzon: the Zambales groups, including the Pinatubo,
in the west, and the Agta and others in the northeast. Some of these groups are
Negritos (Luzon, Mindanao), others are Mongoloids (Palawan), and others still
are known as ‘mixed’ (Visayas). All speak languages of the Philippine group of the
Austronesian language family. A substantial number of these nomads have now
shifted to a sedentary farming existence, at least partially.
Borneo’s eastern coastline and offshore islands are home to scattered
communities of maritime nomads, of whom the best known are the Bajau Laut
(or Sama Laut; see Sopher 1965, Sather 1997). Whereas these Sea Nomads
traditionally earned a living off the sea, the nomads of interior Borneo, often
included in the generic category of Dayak, have traditionally lived off wild
resources in the humid tropical rainforest.
In total, those in Southeast Asia who are (or were until relatively recently) forest
hunter-gatherers may number about 50,000 (following Endicott 1999: 281). As
hunter-gatherers, all the above-mentioned groups have much in common culturally,
socially, and economically, despite the geographical distance between them. Their
basic technological kit, quite limited because of portability constraints, has been
sufficient to allow for the adequate exploitation of wild resources available in their
natural environment and, often (as in Thailand, Borneo, and Peninsular Malaysia),
full self-sufficiency, in spite of their historical lack of metals. Implements have
included a digging stick, a harpoon, a pike, and a blowpipe and/or bow-and-arrow,
as well as baskets, mats, and carrying nets. They have also displayed an egalitarian
social organisation, based on autonomous nuclear families grouped in small-sized
bands, usually scattered widely over territories remote from centres of large
population. This optimal access to resources has allowed some flexibility in their
recourse to a variety of available economic choices, according to time and place.
Finally, although they have lived in relative isolation, most eventually established
trade relations with their settled neighbours.
While this may lead one to ponder a common cultural background, and
possibly even a common ancestry, among all Southeast Asian hunting and
gathering groups, it should be kept in mind that they appear phenotypically
divided into Negrito and Mongoloid, and that their languages belong to two
separate language families, Mon-Khmer and Austronesian.
HUNTER-GATHERERS IN BORNEO
This section introduces the island of Borneo, its population, and its nomadic
inhabitants, and gives a summary account of earlier studies of hunter-gatherers
3
Map 1.1. Area of Known Past and Present Hunting-Gathering Groups
in Borneo (see Map 1.1). In addition, a tentative clarification of these groups’

ethnonyms, classification, and origins is provided.
In the following, we refer, minimally and classically, to hunter-gatherers as
groups of people whose subsistence is secured, on a permanent basis, by
‘hunting of wild animals, gathering of wild plant foods, and fishing, with no
domestication of plants, and no domesticated animals except the dog’ (Lee and
Daly 1999: 3). For convenience, we also use the term ‘nomad’, interchangeably
with ‘hunter-gatherer’. Unlike some scholars (e.g., Humphrey and Sneath 1999),
we feel that ‘nomad’ continues to have currency for describing a lifestyle, in both
cultural and social terms, which, while rapidly disappearing, provides a useful
counterpoint to a standard traditional way of life, followed by many indigenous
4
Introduction
rural dwellers in Borneo, revolving around more permanent settlement and rice
farming. These nomads’ way of life, indeed, is what, in their own eyes, constitutes
a primary contrast to their neighbours, and therefore a primary criterion of
self-identification: ‘That is their way of life (inah pengurip irah); this is our way of
life (iteu’ pengurip amee’ )’ (Langub 1993: 109). In the following, a nomad is thus
seen as a person primarily subsisting on wild resources – the exploitation of which
entails some degree of residential impermanence; and forming part of a group that,
until relatively recently, has lived ‘without the overarching discipline imposed by
the state’ (Lee and Daly 1999: 1), and which then could be seen as ‘stateless’ (Trigger
1999: 473).
The Setting
The island of Borneo, straddling the Equator, occupies an area of about 750,000
sq. km and has a total population of about 15 million people. It is divided politically
among three nations. The Indonesian portion comprises two-thirds of the island’s
total area (with 11 million people, according to the 2000 census). It is made up of
four provinces, West Kalimantan (145,000 sq. km, population 3.7 million, capital
Pontianak), South Kalimantan (40,000 sq. km, population 3 million, capital
Banjarmasin), East Kalimantan (200,000 sq. km, population 2.4 million,
capital Samarinda), and Central Kalimantan (150,000 sq. km, population
1.8 million, capital Palangkaraya). There are also two states forming part of the
Federation of Malaysia: Sarawak (125,000 sq. km, population 2 million, capital
Kuching) and Sabah (75,000 sq. km, population 2.1 million, capital Kota
Kinabalu); and the independent sultanate of Brunei Darussalam (5,700 sq. km,
population 350,000, capital Bandar Sri Begawan). Indonesians refer to the whole
island as Kalimantan, while Bruneians and Malaysians generally distinguish
between the island’s different political divisions by name, and both Sarawak and
Sabah are together referred to as East Malaysia.
The majority of Borneo’s total population are Melayu (or Malays) and they
number some nine million. The groups collectively referred to as Dayak number
around three million. There are also two important groups of more recent
newcomers: the Chinese (about two million), whose 200-year presence on the
island has played an increasingly important role in various major aspects of the
island’s economy; and the Javanese immigrants to Indonesian Kalimantan
(amounting to probably over one million), either through officially initiated
‘transmigration’ schemes or personal motivation. Small minorities of Indians
and Europeans are also present, as are minorities of migrants to Kalimantan
from various other Indonesian islands – some came as early as the seventeenth
5
century, e.g., the Bugis, while others arrived a decade ago, e.g., the Toraja – and
to Sabah from the Philippines.
The current ethnic composition of Borneo results from successive arrivals, in
a slow trickle rather than as ‘waves’, of sea-faring peoples. The prehistory of
Borneo is not yet very well understood, and this is not the place for a complete
summary of Borneo’s archaeology (see Bellwood 1985, 1997, 1999). Its current
autochthonous peoples (now referred to as Melayu and Dayak) are believed to
have begun arriving from regions further north several millennia ago. These
‘Austronesian’ peoples were of Mongoloid origin and their languages were part of
the Western Malayo-Polynesian branch of the Austronesian language family.
They are believed to have brought to Borneo a variety of cultural novelties,
including rice agriculture – a date for the earliest known occurrence of rice in
Borneo is 2500 B.C. (see Ipoi 1993). During the last few millennia, many groups
have so migrated to or transited through Borneo, interacting culturally
and linguistically with various earlier settlers, and attempting to establish clear-
cut ethnic categories proves a thorny problem (for further discussion see,
e.g., Rousseau 1990).
The name Dayak, generally carrying the meaning of ‘upriver (people)’, is
commonly used by outsiders (including Melayu) to refer to non-Muslim tribal
groups. There is no single Dayak entity in Borneo and, in fact, hardly any group
claims Dayak as its original name. There are hundreds of Dayak (here construed
as non-Melayu) ethnic groups, each with its own, specific ethnonym(s), distinctive
language (or dialect), culture, and traditions. Nomadic groups often are lumped
together by outsiders under the Dayak label.
The term Melayu, conversely, is often indiscriminately applied (by Dayak
and non-Bornean peoples) to all autochthonous Muslim groups. Many Melayu
groups, particularly in Kalimantan, do not call themselves Melayu, but rather
refer to a toponym: Orang (or Urang) Banjar (around Banjarmasin), Orang
Kutai (in the lower Mahakam), or Orang Senganan (in the upper Kapuas).
Some, however, use the term Melayu followed by a toponym, e.g., Melayu
Pontianak, or Melayu Kuching. Although important coastal Melayu sultanates’
dynasties usually claim descent from the Prophet – and some, indeed, were
founded by Arab traders – the bulk of Melayu populations have derived
historically from local Dayak groups that converted to Islam, mostly in coastal
and lower-river regions, and locally in the larger upriver settlements. In fact,
there are dozens of such Melayu groups, each with its own dialectal and cultural
specificity, primarily due to its distinctive ‘Dayak’ background. Malay languages
seem to have originated in West Kalimantan, where a number of Dayak groups
6
Introduction
still speak Malay dialects (Adelaar 1985, Collins 1998). All the Melayu groups
have in common their religion and the use of the Arabic script, specific styles of
costume and housing pattern, and their organisation in the form of petty trading
polities or larger sultanates, with a pyramidal structure of vassal-overlord
relations. Besides these, there are Islamised Dayak groups that are unwilling to
be viewed as Melayu (e.g., the Melanau in Sarawak, part of the Mualang in West
Kalimantan, or the Bekumpai in South Kalimantan).
Forest hunting-gathering groups are known by names that vary according to
the regions in which they are found. The term ‘Punan’ (which may also be
articulated locally as ‘Penan’) has long been, by far, the most widely used by
Borneo’s settled peoples, Dayak and Melayu alike (not to mention foreign
administrators), to refer to various nomadic groups of hunter-gatherers. ‘Punan’,
here, stands in contrast to ‘Dayak’, a term that, in turn, has long been most
commonly used by coastal, Islamised peoples to refer collectively to settled or
itinerant tribal farming groups. Contrary to Dayak groups, most of whom have
retained their specific respective autonyms, nomadic groups have readily endorsed
the exonym ‘Punan’ or ‘Penan’, which to them was something of no great
relevance (see the discussion of ethnonyms below). Not all nomadic groups,
however, refer to themselves as Punan or Penan: The Bhuket (or Bukat, Ukit; see
Thambiah in this volume), the Lisum, the Beketan, or the Kereho (see Sellato
1989, 1994a) have always referred to themselves by their own names, despite
being called Punan Bukat or Punan Kereho by their settled neighbours and the
state administration.
In the course of time, and increasingly over recent decades, Borneo hunter-
gatherers, like other hunting-gathering groups worldwide, have established more
permanent settlements, shifting to a more sedentary way of life oriented towards
certain forms of agriculture, and have demographically thrived (Sercombe 1996a;
but see Headland and Blood 2002: xx). It is likely that quite a number of today’s
farming groups in Borneo have derived historically from nomadic peoples.
Nowadays, with most nomadic groups at least partly settled, the total number of
genuine hunter-gatherers in Borneo is unlikely to be more than a few hundred.
Earlier Works
Regarding both Kalimantan and Sarawak, the literature of the colonial times, a
huge body of documentation, yields relatively little about Borneo’s hunter-
gatherers. While some of the older sources hint at the existence of nomads,
sometimes described as having a tail, in the interior of the island, very little
in the literature prior to 1900 provides more than occasional brief notes about
7
these peoples, and it is almost always based on second-hand information. Only

in the last few years of the nineteenth century, which saw the first major Dutch
expeditions across Kalimantan and the consolidation of the Brooke administration
in Sarawak’s far interior, does a more reliable body of first-hand data begin to
emerge. Even this rarely consists of more than a few paragraphs, at best a few
pages (e.g., Low 1882, Hose 1894–1895, Roth 1968 [1896], Nieuwenhuis 1902).
Only seldom was an article actually devoted to nomads (e.g., Stolk 1907).
The most isolated groups of hunter-gatherers were first visited by Western
explorers as recently as the first two decades of the twentieth century and, in the
1920s and 1930s, more substantial and reliable information began to appear
(e.g., Lumholtz 1920, Elshout 1926, Pauwels 1935, Tillema 1939). Curiously,
interest in nomads arose earlier in Kalimantan than it did in Sarawak or Brunei
– indeed, in the latter state, nomads were not to be found until relatively
recently.
The data made available in sources before World War II, some of extraordinarily
high quality (such as the four sources referred to above), were gathered by
explorers, military officers, colonial administrators, and missionaries. It was
subsequent to this period that an era of professional social scientific research
emerged.
By the year 1950, the first important works about nomads in Sarawak began to
appear, including T. Harrisson (1949a), I.A.N. Urquhart (1951a, 1951b, 1954, 1955,
1956, 1957, 1958–1959), R. Needham (1953, 1954a–f), G. Arnold (1958), and
W.H. Huehne (1959–60). In the late 1960s some nomad-oriented research activity
was observed in Kalimantan, with reports and memoirs by M. Simandjuntak (1967),
Sulaiman Ring (1968), Marcus Sinau (1970), and R.A.M. Wariso (1971); while
Benedict Sandin reported on Sarawak’s nomads (1965, 1967–68).
In the 1970s, more of Sarawak’s nomads came under closer scrutiny by
scholars such as D.B. Ellis (1972), Jayl Langub (1972a), Tuton Kaboy (1974),
C. Sloan (1975). J. Nicolaisen (1976a, 1976b, 1978), and J. Yaman (1979);
while, during the same period, H.L. Whittier (1974) and V.T. King (1974, 1975a,
1975b, 1979) also reported on nomadic groups in Kalimantan, and A.B. Hudson
(1978) included Sarawak nomads’ languages in his classification.
After 1980, nomadic groups became the subject of more intensive long-term
studies, with new Ph.D. dissertations devoted to them, first in Kalimantan
(C.L. Hoffman 1983 and B. Sellato 1986). Other notable works of the 1980s
include those of M. Heppell (n.d.), S. Seitz (1981), P.M. Kedit (1982), and
J.P. Brosius (1986), as well as H.K. Hildebrand’s (1982) useful compilation of
earlier sources, and J. Rousseau’s review of theses on nomads (Rousseau 1984)
8
Introduction
and his Central Borneo bibliography (1988). One of the projects in and for the
Gunung Mulu National Park in Eastern Sarawak also triggered interesting work
on nomads who inhabited the area (Anderson et al. 1982).
During the 1990s, scholars such as Langub, Brosius, Seitz, and Sellato,
continued to research Borneo’s nomads and, in the second half of the decade, new
investigators – including L. Kaskija (e.g., 1998), Mering Ngo (e.g., 1996b),
R.K. Puri (e.g., 1997a), P.G. Sercombe (e.g., 1996a), S. Thambiah (e.g., 1995),
and R.A. Voeks (e.g., 1999) – moved into this field of study, helping to construct
an increasingly substantial corpus of scientific data about nomads. Related works
include those of J. Rousseau (1990) and C. Sather (1995), while Dollop Mamung
(1998) published an extensive dictionary of the Punan Tubu (or Tubu’) language,
and J. Langub (2001) a collection of Penan folktales in Penan and English.
It should be noted that, in addition, a specific body of literature on Bornean
nomads, much with a strong emphasis on environmental issues and human-
rights advocacy, has also appeared (by, among others, E. Hong 1987, D. Lau
1987, P. Chen 1990, Khaidir Ahmad 1994, and B. Manser 1996), as well as a
number of films (e.g., Blowpipes and Bulldozers 1988, Tong Tana 1989).
At the present time, there are several research programs focused on nomadic
groups, with specific interest in their traditional environmental knowledge
and resource tenure – in Malinau District in East Kalimantan, and Bentuang-
Karimun (Betung-Kerihun) National Park in West Kalimantan.
Despite the research undertaken to date, there is still much to be understood
about nomadic groups in Borneo. Of the entire clusters existing, about which
very little ethnographic data has been gathered, a comprehensive inventory of
present-day nomadic groups still remains to be undertaken (see Sellato 1989
and 1994a). And research on the history of Borneo’s nomadic groups can be
described as still being in relative infancy.
We have chosen to include in this volume reprints of two important works
among those listed above. They reflect successive situations in Borneo, set almost a
half century apart from each other. Firstly, Rodney Needham’s pioneering thesis
on the Penan of Sarawak (1953) was summarised in the 1972 compendium edited
by F.M. LeBar. This brief text dealing with Penan actually constitutes a very
systematic useful and comprehensive introduction to the nomadic and formerly
nomadic groups of Borneo. And secondly, J. Peter Brosius’ recent article (1997)
on contrasting responses of Eastern and Western Penan to the industrial logging
of their forests quite clearly exposes the challenges that modernisation brings to
small-scale forest societies, in Borneo as elsewhere, and the ambiguous attitudes
these adopt in coping with those challenges.
9
Names, Groupings, and Origins (see Map 1.2)

As mentioned, due to a relatively meagre array of historic and ethnographic
sources, our understanding of nomads throughout Borneo, ethnically, culturally,
and linguistically, remains fairly limited. Extended and multiple contacts between
nomads and various groups of (settled) Dayak over time, have, moreover, resulted
in considerable cultural and linguistic overlaps between the languages and
cultures of the different nomadic groups and those of their settled neighbours.
At the same time, the splitting and independent migration of related nomadic
groups to associate with distinct, geographically distant settled groups have
also led to increasing divergences among nomads, and the resulting subgroups’
cultures and languages are now found to display considerable variation across the
island (a point discussed by Thambiah in this volume).
Map 1.2. Location of Groups Studied

10
Introduction
The common absence of permanent autonyms (or endonyms, or names by

which groups refer to themselves), and nomads’ frequent long-distance migrations
over time, make it problematic to correlate or distinguish between groups referred
to in the literature at the beginning of the twentieth century and those of today.
Earlier literature shows a considerable number of ethnonyms, old and new (in
the form of exonyms, or names imposed and used by outsiders), which correspond
to a smaller number of actual groups (see Hildebrand 1982; on ethnicity and
ethnic labelling and self-labelling in Borneo, see, e.g., Needham 1955, Babcock
1979, King 1982, 1989, 2001, Langub 1987, Maxwell 1996).
A variety of terms have been and still are used by farming groups in the
different regions of Borneo to refer to their nomadic neighbours. There appear
four main impressions of nomads held by farmers: nomads live farther upstream
(than farmers); they live in the mountainous interior; they inhabit climax
rainforest; they have no permanent villages and thus are continually on the move.
As a result, the most common terms of reference are: ‘upriver people’ (olo ot), in
Central Kalimantan; ‘mountain people’ (ukit, tau ’ukit, bukit) in Sarawak and
West Kalimantan; and ‘forest people’ (tau toan) in West Kalimantan. In addition,
the terms penan, pennan and punan are used in Kalimantan, Sarawak, and
Brunei, which are of controversial etymology, but which have been defined as ‘to
wander and subsist in the forest’.
All these terms are exonyms; frequently, a first-order exonym is followed by
a second-order name, usually a place name, distinguishing the group or band
more precisely; for example, the Olo Ot Nyawong (nomads of Mt. Nyawong) or
the Punan Serata (nomads of the Serata River). When the Serata band left this
river to make their home elsewhere, new neighbours referred to the band
differently, and so later they were successively called Punan Langasa, Punan
Nya’an, and finally Punan Merah. Likewise, Olo Ot Nyawong is the name
given in Central Kalimantan to the Kereho, who are also known as Punan
Keriau in West Kalimantan. It becomes, therefore, an uncertain task to isolate
particular groups referred to by different, successive names (for further detail,
see Sellato 1994a).
Nomads themselves, who rarely seem to mind a great deal about the name
given to their or other bands, have often confirmed an exonym (or successive
exonyms) by which others refer to them, and this compounds difficulties of
distinction between social historians and other interested parties. In Kalimantan,
nomads have generally endorsed the generic exonym Punan, while in Sarawak
and Brunei Penan became the default term of reference for most nomads.
In some instances, a toponym has become an autonym, while the first-order
11
exonym is not used, thus resulting in Lisum (cf. Punan Lisum), or Kereho
(cf. Punan Kereho/Keriau), in the case of two particular groups.
There are, or used to be, dozens of small nomadic groups across Borneo,
and their linguistic and cultural interrelationships are yet to be definitively
established. There have, nonetheless, been some attempts at classification.
These occurred in Sarawak, with strict reference to Sarawak groups, and with
a striking ignorance of or contempt for the rest of the island. One example, a
now slightly dated assertion, contrasted the terms Punan and Penan (e.g.,
Needham 1954b) with reference to nomads in Sarawak, which was relevant to
the area, although this distinction appears insufficient with regard to the larger
Borneo picture, and is therefore not considered relevant for our purposes
here.
From the available ethnohistorical data and on the basis of apparent linguistic
affinities, the following groupings can be tentatively proposed.
1. The Bukat-Ukit-Beketan-Lugat-Lisum probably originated in the border re-

gion of western Sarawak and West Kalimantan and spread over to the upper
Mahakam, the Tabang area, Apo Kayan, and even the Malinau area, all in
East Kalimantan.
2. The Punan Aput-Busang-Merah-Kohi may be closely related to those above
and seem to have spread from the Rajang and Baleh river areas of Sarawak
into the Apo Kayan and the middle Mahakam regions.
3. The Western Penan include nomads of eastern Sarawak, between the Rajang
and Baram Rivers, and some groups of the northern part of East Kalimantan,
who at some point moved east from Sarawak (e.g., the Penan Benalui of the
Bahau River).
4. The Eastern Penan, including those in Brunei, probably migrated across
watersheds into Sarawak from north-east Kalimantan and progressively dis-
persed throughout areas across north-east Sarawak, east of the Baram River.
5. The Punan Tubu-Malinau-Mentarang possibly include the Punan Sekatak
(or Punan Berusu’) and other minor groups and may have formed an autoch-
thonous population of coastal north-east Kalimantan.
6. The Punan Kelai-Segah in Berau Regency may also include the Punan Batu
and perhaps the Basap in the central coastal regions of East Kalimantan (but
descent from slaves of extraneous origins brought to the coastal edible-swift-
let-cave areas should not be discounted).
7. The Müller-Schwaner Punan include the Kereho (Punan Keriau), Hovongan
(Punan Bungan), and Seputan, as well as the nomadic component of the
Aoheng, in the upper reaches of the Kapuas, Barito, and Mahakam rivers.
8. The Punan Murung-Ratah comprise bands along the border of East, South,
and Central Kalimantan. Today, there exist only groups along the Murung
12
Introduction
and Ratah rivers, in the north, as well as, perhaps, the now-settled Bukit of
the Meratus Mountains, in the south.
A classification such as the above must remain hypothetical as long as
ethnohistorical data remain incomplete, and until a systematic linguistic survey
of all nomadic or (known) formerly nomadic groups is undertaken.
Since Western observers first reported on Borneo’s nomadic groups, hypotheses
have been put forward regarding their origins and their associations to Dayak
(farming) groups. As early as Low’s propositions (1876), it was recognised that
nomadic communities were gradually shifting towards a degree of settled
existence, and that a number of settled (Dayak) groups are closely related to
nomads, and some of them can thus be regarded as former nomads who adopted
a settled way of life (see Hose and McDougall 1912: 193). More recently, it has
been proposed that the settled Kenyah, now dedicated swiddeners, have derived
from nomadic Penan who, two or three centuries ago, opted for a sedentary
existence (Urquhart 1958: 206, Whittier 1973: 22, Brosius 1988a: 84). It is clear
that Kenyah and Penan languages belong to the same linguistic subgroup (see
Needham in this volume; see also Blust 1974). It is likely that the Kenyah (or at
least some of the groups currently labelled as Kenyah) are not the only case of
this kind, although little sound research or documentation exists on linguistic
links between settled and nomadic groups in Borneo.
The economic, social, political, and cultural processes via which nomads
settle have been investigated and described for a number of groups, both over
recent periods (see Chan, and Sercombe in this volume) and during the more
distant past (Sellato 1994a). As mentioned earlier, there is no doubt that there
has been an increasing trend, particularly over the last century, for the nomadic
hunting and gathering way of life to give way progressively to a more settled
mode of existence involving some form of agriculture. This process of sedentism
among nomads may be referred to as a historical trend within a given time frame.
This does not necessarily mean that nomads always make a total (or even
irrevocable) shift to agriculture, much less to rice farming, which continues to be
the main means of subsistence among other settled peoples in rural parts of
Borneo. However, while tubers and fruits remain important to settling nomads,
it is notable that many sago-eating peoples have been shifting to the cultivation
and consumption of rice, not only in Borneo but also throughout insular
Southeast Asia (see Avé 1977: 28).
This recent historical trend, however, implies no assumptions of what may
have taken place in earlier centuries or millennia. Theories about the ultimate
13
origins of Borneo’s hunter-gatherers (such as Hose and McDougall 1912;

Kennedy 1943 [1935], Urquhart 1959) have tended to view nomads as cultural
vestiges of a general evolutionary process of conversion to agriculture. Other
theories, such as those of Vrocklage (1936), Von Heine-Geldern (1946) and,
more recently, Nicolaisen (1976a, 1976b) claimed that Borneo’s hunting and
gathering culture is original, and independent of farmers’ cultures. This claim
was made on the basis of incompatible traits between the cultures and social
organisation patterns of hunter-gatherers and farmers. It should be noted,
however, that the two theoretical positions above are not altogether contradictory
or incompatible.
Recent hypotheses regarding migration to Borneo, over four millennia ago,
of peoples speaking Austronesian tongues (e.g. Blust 1976, Bellwood 1985, 1997)
have intimated that people who came to and spread across the island were already
agriculturalists (on the antiquity of rice in Borneo, see Ipoi 1993). According to
these hypotheses, since Borneo’s hunter-gatherers are phenotypically similar to
their settled neighbours (see, e.g., Leach 1950: 38) and they too speak Austronesian
languages, it follows that they are the remote descendents of farmers who moved
into primary forest and switched to a hunting and gathering way of life. Reasons
for such a switch could be either political (e.g., warfare and insecurity, internal
political strife) or economic (e.g., specialisation in the exploitation of forest
resources). Bellwood (1985: 130, 1997: 71) has in fact suggested that Borneo’s
‘Austronesian-speaking hunters and gatherers have probably adopted this way of
life as a result of change from an agricultural ancestry’; they would thus be
‘secondary primitives’, as a result of ‘cultural devolution’ (see Seitz 1981; Hoffman
1986, 1988, Sather 1995).
This last hypothesis does not take account of certain other considerations.
One of these is that genetic stock, language, and material culture are by no means
necessarily linked. Prior to the Austronesian expansion to Borneo, the island was
inhabited by non-Mongoloids who spoke non-Austronesian tongues (Adelaar
1995), and these people certainly were hunter-gatherers, as excavations at
Niah Caves and elsewhere have shown, such that a hunting-gathering culture
predated the arrival of the earliest Austronesian speakers. Moreover, Austronesian-
speaking immigrants may have been fishermen, strand and forest collectors
and/or, possibly, horticulturalists, rather than full-fledged agriculturalists (see
Bellwood 1999: 287).
Rather than assuming the complete extinction of the non-Mongoloid
population following the arrival of Austronesian-speaking populations in Borneo,
it seems more plausible to infer the gradual spread inland of certain forms of
14
Introduction
horticulture (see Sellato 1993a, 1994a: 187–191), perhaps along with the
development of new hunting and gathering techniques. Across different groups,
there probably arose a range of economic situations comprising a variety of
subsistence techniques, among which an original hunting and gathering culture
survived, in specific niches, in either an original or modified form. It is also
probable that some hunting and gathering groups actively traded with their
settled neighbours from early times (see Needham in this volume). At the same
time, it is likely that horticulture gradually extended over most of the island’s
interior, in the absence of rice cultivation (as swiddening could not have spread
inland without metals), and is liable to have survived until after the middle of the
second millennium A.D.
Since the earlier, pre-Austronesian autochthonous population had probably
been quite sparse, its genetic pool would have been absorbed by newcomers, with
the result that nomads developed physically to resemble farmers as Mongoloids.
Likewise, the autochthonous languages could have been overwhelmed by
Austronesian languages (cf. Griffin 2002: 42, and the likelihood of a similar
occurrence with regard to the Agta in the Philippines). Nevertheless, both pre-
Austronesian genes and languages must have left traces, which may one day be
more fully revealed. Human phylogenetic surveys in Borneo should yield
interesting results; while, regarding languages, Adelaar (1995) has proposed that
the Land Dayak or Bidayuh languages are derived from those of a local pre-
existing Aslian-speaking community in Sarawak (see also Sellato 1993a).
The cultural similarities across Borneo’s hunting and gathering groups have
frequently been remarked upon, as is implied by the common use of the terms
Penan or Punan, by either local farming peoples or foreign scholars, to refer to
nomads across the island. In conjunction, ethnohistorical investigations point to
one area (among others possible) of origin for hunter-gatherers in Borneo: the
north-western tip of the island, for a number of now widely scattered groups
(Sellato 1994a). Moreover, the languages of most, if not all nomadic groups
appear to be more or less closely related (Hudson 1978, Sellato 1993a).
In addition, as mentioned above, connections with the languages of Bidayuh
groups (who occupy western Sarawak) and those of some Orang Asli groups in
peninsular Malaysia hint at a remote common non-Austronesian linguistic
substratum among hunting-gathering groups of Borneo. This, however, remains
to be more thoroughly investigated. Finally, some important elements across
these Bornean hunting and gathering groups include a common means of
subsistence (central to which is the harvesting of sago palm) and, perhaps even
more fundamentally, an ideological core (see below), for want of another term,
15
that is quite unlike that of farmers. This ideological outlook common to numerous
nomads remains in evidence among many communities of former hunter-
gatherers, who today are either partially or fully settled, as described in a number
of the contributions in this volume.
Despite the above suggestions, in the present state of our knowledge about
Borneo’s nomads, it does not seem possible to confirm any single hypothesis (see
Martin and Sercombe 1992) regarding the origins of Borneo’s nomads, much
less ascribe to it the validity of a general model. What is more, in principle, there
is presently no solid reason to prohibit the coexistence in different parts of the
island of two or more of the processes described above or, in fact, a succession of
these within a single region.
NOMAD CULTURE AND OUTLOOK

This section, much of which is written in the ethnographic present tense, briefly
describes patterns pertaining to the culture and outlook of Borneo’s nomadic
groups across the island. While certain details may not be specific to all nomadic
groups, they nevertheless have general application.
It has been argued (Sellato 1994a) that Borneo’s traditional hunting-gathering
societies, with their nomadic way of life and fluid social organisation, are open,
individualistic, pragmatic, opportunistic, egalitarian and little inclined to formal
religious belief and philosophy. Individuals are equal within society, and free to
make choices that they feel are best for them. Practically, this is realised in a high
level of autonomy for each nuclear family, vis-à-vis the band.
Outlined below are the following: nomads’ natural environment and their
subsistence strategies; their social organisation, in relation to subsistence; their
trading patterns; their material and spiritual culture; and the relationship
between their economy and regional politics. The section concludes with some
considerations of a distinctive ideological core (which causes nomads, and even
former nomads, to feel, think and live quite differently from farmers) and of
nomads’ sense of identity in a broader ethnic setting. These generic data serve as
a backdrop to subsequent discussions of change.
Environment and Subsistence

While relatively few in number, nomads are distributed thinly across vast expanses
of the interior of Borneo. Depending on altitude, several major ecological zones
of the rainforest can be distinguished in this part of the island: lowland rainforest
16
Introduction
(below 500 m), also known as Dipterocarp forest; mountain forest (above
1,000 m), with a different plant species composition; and, in between, forest
of intermediate or mixed composition. Further differentiation depends on the
local geological substratum, climate, and other physical environmental factors
(for an in-depth description and analysis of the Borneo forest environment, see
MacKinnon et al. 1996).
The nomads’ territory is first ecologically determined: a region of climax
rainforest, generally lowland and intermediate forest, containing adequate food
resources. But much of the lowland forest is occupied by communities of Dayak
farmers, whose slash-and-burn use of this land results in the growth of secondary
forest and, eventually, through intensive use, in loss of soil fertility and the
emergence of grasslands. Due to the combination of these ecological and social
factors, nomads’ territory therefore most commonly consists of a mountain
massif forming the water divide between two or more river basins, and it lies
beyond the territories of their nearest settled neighbours and is confined by them.
Most often, a nomadic group’s territory is an enclave with precarious boundaries,
since farmers may encroach by expanding their farmlands into it and felling its
forest for farming or by establishing further outlying settlements. Conversely,
farmers may withdraw to areas farther downstream, thus leaving more space to
the nomads.
For nomads, the rainforest is an essential economic niche, with its rich animal
and plant life. It has been argued that the tropical rainforest environment is not
rich enough in plant carbohydrates to allow for nomads to achieve food self-
sufficiency (Headland 1987, Bailey et al. 1989). First, there is no such thing
as a ‘generic’ tropical rainforest, as one of us has argued elsewhere (Sellato
1994b). Not all forests are alike. Furthermore, rainforests in Borneo, as in other
parts of the world, most often have undergone some degree of anthropisation,
they are hardly ever pristine, and a continuum is found from ‘climax’ forest to
‘agro-forest’ (id.). Second, it has been shown, for various regions of Southeast
Asia, that hunting-gathering groups can indeed achieve food self-sufficiency
from their forested territory alone. This is the case for the Batek in Peninsular
Malaysia (Endicott and Bellwood 1991), the Mlabri of northern Thailand
(Pookajorn et al. 1992), and for Borneo nomads (Sellato 1989, 1994a, Brosius
1991a, Chan in this volume). Indeed, apart from their main staple food, nomads
complement their diet with ‘lots of little things’ (Dentan 1991), a range of smaller
creatures, including lizards, frogs, water molluscs, and palm grubs.
So, unlike other rainforests, Borneo’s is rich in sources of carbohydrates. The
island’s humid equatorial climate has no marked seasons and these energy
17
resources are available all year round, allowing nomads a constant dependence
upon the forest and autonomy in their food supply. Nomads rely principally on
one staple food for their daily subsistence, sago, a starch extracted from palm
trees (see Puri 1997b).
Until recently, nomads had no domestic animals, which would have hampered
their mobility. The only exception is the dog, yet there is evidence that at least
some groups of nomads only recently began to use dogs. Being dedicated hunters
by necessity, they are widely acknowledged by Dayak for their skill in obtaining
arboreal animals (birds, squirrels, and monkeys) with their blowpipes and
poisoned darts (see Sloan 1975). Their favourite prey is the large bearded wild
boar, an important source of animal proteins and fat, which they commonly
hunt with dogs and spears. On a daily basis, however, they also rely on catching
‘lots of little things’.
Traditionally, fish were not a central part of hunter-gatherers’ diets, and they
possessed no lines, hooks, fishing nets, or fish traps (see Bailey 2002: 10, on the
same point, regarding the Efe of the Congo). Fish were obtained with a harpoon,
or bow and arrow, or occasionally caught by hand after being stunned by plant
poisons distributed in certain parts of a river. Since nomads seldom came close
to large streams, they were, until recently, quite unskilled regarding the
construction of a dugout canoe and, generally, were unable to swim.
Varying with groups and regions, some 100 to 200 forest plant species are
collected for food by nomads, among which are edible roots or tubers, leaves,
ferns, bamboo shoots, flower buds, mushrooms, and some 50 types of fruits (see,
e.g., Puri 2001; Voeks, in this volume, discusses ethnobotanical knowledge of
Penan in the transition from nomadism to settlement; on this, see also Fowler
and Turner 1999). The task of food gathering is performed mostly by women,
children, and elderly men. Fruit, particularly, plays an important role in the diet
of nomads, especially those types rich in nutrients, such as the different varieties
of jackfruit and durian.
Storage of food has always been difficult in a humid climate (for those without
access to modern technology). Sago flour quickly becomes mouldy, dried or
smoked meat generally lasts only a few days, and salt is seldom available. Only
honey, wild boar lard, and some nuts can be preserved for future consumption.
As a result, food tends to be consumed quite rapidly by nomads when plentiful.
When food is scarce nomads often go hungry.
In spite of a seemingly sporadic dietary intake, nomads have been found to be
in better health than many settled farming group (Huehne 1959–1960, Ellis
1972). Furthermore, the general isolation and mobility of nomads often allows
18
Introduction
them to avoid diseases that sweep through settled communities, such as measles
or cholera epidemics, which have decimated farmers in the past. Nomads treat
their limited suite of illnesses with a narrow range of plant medicines (see Voeks
and Sercombe 2000; see also Voeks in this volume). Conversely, nomads have
little opportunity to develop resistance to ailments that occur among larger
population groups and are thus especially vulnerable to infectious diseases, and
a host of others.
Even though some bands have long remained extremely isolated, nomads
generally are not completely removed from the outside world. They are often
part of, directly or indirectly (e.g., through other nomads), a network of economic
relations and commonly engage in trade with their settled neighbours. It should
be stressed, however, that the exploitation of the rainforest by traditional nomads
is oriented first and foremost towards subsistence, and only secondarily towards
trade. In the course of their history, however, many nomadic groups became
professional collectors of forest products for trade, resulting from the pressing
demands of coastal markets (for Peninsular Malaysia, see Dunn 1975). Recently,
some even abandoned sago collecting, and began purchasing rice from downriver
neighbours or consuming rice provided by expedition sponsors, in order to
become full-time collectors.
In the field of economics, it should be made clear here that nomadic groups
share certain features with their settled neighbours. Most of Borneo’s swidden
farmers also hunt, fish, and gather forest foods, either on a routine basis or in
times of famine, and are often readily at home in the forest. Farming groups like
the Iban organise long expeditions into the forest to collect forest products for
trade, and there they live like nomads, subsisting on wild sago. Some particular
men of Kenyah and Aoheng farming communities have been known to live
permanently alone in the forest, as nomads. Conversely, we know that nomadic
groups exploit sago groves in rotation and practise a form of stewardship that
contributes to the regeneration of palms (see Brosius 1993a; the Phi Tong Luang
leave in the ground a portion of each Dioscorea tuber that they dig up, so that it
will grow again, see Pookajorn et al. 1992; on rice and yams in Thailand, see also
White 1989). This, and the habit some groups have of dropping fruit seeds near
their camps suggest that, in Borneo as elsewhere, the boundary between hunting-
gathering and horticulture is somewhat hazy (Sellato 1994a, 1994b; see also
Chan in this volume). In practice, one may encounter between Punan and Penan
groups today a variety of ‘mixed’ subsistence systems combining in varying
proportions hunting-gathering, horticulture, and settled swidden farming; the
specificity of such systems is that they can be fairly stable in the long term,
19
and that there is no necessary (‘evolutionary’) unidirectional shift (see Sellato

1994b; on swiddening, see Chin 1985 and Dove 1985; on roots and tubers, see
Boomgaard 2003).
Society and Way of Life

Each ethnic group or tribe of nomads is made up of a varying number of
autonomous bands. Although these bands are related to one another by blood
and marriage and often share a territory, the tribe as a whole shows no form of
political organisation, and bands remain fairly isolated from one another, except
for occasional bartering and some degree of intermarriage.
Each band is a loose congregation of some 20–50 people (larger groups not
being viable with regard to subsistence constraints), grouped in nuclear family units,
which reside and migrate together. They also produce and consume food together.
Under the informal leadership of an experienced, male or female elder, the band
constitutes an egalitarian community, in which each individual or family participates
in decision-making and remains free to leave the band and join another, if they so
wish. Under the influence of farming neighbours, however, nomadic bands can
establish more formal patterns of hereditary leadership (see Langub 2004 and
Brosius in this volume), and even sometimes a loose form of social stratification.
Camps, consisting of simple lean-tos for one night, or more elaborate huts for
longer periods, are generally built at specific locations along a network of
traditionally used footpaths. From a given camp, band members are able to
exploit a number of sago palm groves in the vicinity.
As the band’s main concern is to secure its subsistence, nomadism has proved,
until relatively recently, the most advantageous means of doing so (cf. optimal
foraging). And as the band always needs to be within a fairly short distance of a
grove of sago palm, the size and distribution of these groves govern the frequency
and range of a band’s movements. Other factors, such as headhunting raids by
neighbouring groups, may also affect movements (and this was the case until the
early twentieth century).
Each hut within a camp shelters a single married couple and their young
children, and perhaps a widowed parent. After marriage (a very informal affair),
a young couple establish a new hut. Marriage generally occurs between members
of the same band, and the band thus gains cohesion through its members’
multiple kinship bonds. This does not preclude the occurrence of conflicts over
economic choices, and a band may undergo fission, each new group going its
separate way, often as a result of internal squabbling or pressure on inadequate
subsistence resources in an area.
20
Introduction
Forest and Trade

Borneo has been known well for over a millennium as a source of valuable forest
products such as benzoin and camphor (for a description of early regional trade
and trading polities, see Wolters 1967, Manguin 2004; for an inventory of early
commodities in the Chinese trade, see Wheatley 1959). Trade in forest products
gradually developed significantly in the first half of the second millennium
between the archipelago and China, India, and the Middle East. As early as the
fifteenth century, European markets began seeking these products, resulting in
struggles among European powers for access to the regional trade networks in
Southeast Asia (on this period, see Van Leur 1955, Reid 1988–1993, Lombard
1990, Boomgaard 1998). Indigenous trading polities, mainly the Taosug from
Sulu (see Warren 1981, 2002) and the Bugis from Celebes, thrived in the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, but were finally marginalised by European
intervention (e.g., Cleary 1996).
In Borneo, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, through
coastal ports controlled by local sultans (see, e.g., Lindblad 1988, Magenda
1991), exports of forest products to Europe expanded steadily, along with the
growth of colonial exploration of and political control over the hinterland, which
boosted exploitation of more remote regions for forest products (see Sellato 2001,
2005a).
Borneo’s nomads have long been suppliers, through various intermediaries, of
commercial non-timber forest products to the island’s coastal markets (for an
inventory of these products, see Peluso 1983, De Beer and McDermott 1989, Fox
1995, Brosius 1995a, Puri 1997a, Van Valkenburg 1997, Sellato 2001). These
products have varied through time, following demand. As for timber, only after
World War II did it become a truly important commodity; and this was to
become particularly significant for nomads by the last quarter of the twentieth
century.
Today, world market prices influence nomads’ levels of motivation in collecting
certain products. For example, copal was widely collected in the 1960s, but as
prices fell nomads switched to collecting rattans. They shifted again later, when
the prices for rattans declined while that for gaharu (aloe wood, also called
eaglewood or incense-wood, used for making incense) rose. In the 1970s, few
groups collected birds’ nests, but the price of these skyrocketed in the early 1990s
and quickly became a major source of revenue for nomads (mainly in Kalimantan),
who controlled caves where swiftlets dwelt (and Ngo, in this volume, considers
some of the conflicts that have arisen in connection with this lucrative trade).
However, while certain products such as gutta percha and aloe wood (for which
21
the people of Borneo had little use) were earmarked for export, others, such as
honey, animal hides, and feathers, were restricted to local markets and traded
widely to Dayak groups.
Trade patterns, too, have varied through time, along with the stages of
integration of nomads into regional trade networks. As nomads traditionally
were shy of direct contact with outsiders, even their nearest Dayak neighbours,
barter was first carried out via what was called ‘silent trade’, i.e., trade without
face-to-face meeting. Groups of Dayak slash-and-burn farmers acted as
middlemen between nomadic bands and downriver traders, deriving substantial
economic and political benefit from this business activity. On the coasts and
at the mouths of main rivers, trade entrepôts were established, often at the
initiative of Chinese traders. The colonial powers began to take control of these
entrepôts in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, while several of these later
emerged as major cities on the island, such as Pontianak and Kuching. Such
entrepôts were called at by inter-island trade ships, and later by long-distance
freighters.
Dayak farmers managed to lure nomads by creating new needs among them,
ensnaring many in a credit system (known widely as utang). Consequently, some
nomads became trapped in a perpetual cycle of debt with farmers, leading them
also into a politically subordinate role. At the local level, this resulted in various
patterns of client–patron or vassal–overlord bonds, as well as lasting economic
and political affiliations or, in extreme cases, deep subservience bordering
on slavery of nomadic groups to their settled neighbours. In fact, patterns of
farmer–nomad relationship occur in the form of a continuum, depending on
the intensity of trade that has taken place between them and on the proximity
of nomads and their middlemen traders to coastal urban centres. Nowadays, the
situation is different and farmers are bypassed, as nomads most often deal directly
with downriver traders, generally coastal Chinese and Arabs, or their designated
agents. However, nomads are little better off, as they are frequently in debt to
these traders, who use the same strategies as their Dayak predecessors. Merchants
frequently make a massive profit by buying forest products at low prices, and
selling at high prices to nomads imported goods that are of little long-term
practical use (such as stereo sound systems).
Material and Spiritual Culture

Traditionally, mainly for practical reasons, nomads in Borneo had very little in
terms of material culture. Personal belongings included a loincloth of bark, a few
plaited baskets and mats, and some bamboo containers. Nomads had no metals,
22
Introduction
and their weaponry comprised only wooden implements: a spear, a blowpipe,

a harpoon, and perhaps a bow and arrow – there is no evidence of stone tools
having been in use among nomads (on this, see Dove 1989). They had no
domestic animals (apart from dogs), no fishing implements, and no canoes.
With the establishment and development of trade, nomads acquired new
cultural and technological items, ranging from bush knives and tin pots to dogs
(regarding dogs, see Nicolaisen 1976a) and chickens, all of which have helped to
improve their livelihoods. Some nomadic groups eventually became successful
dog breeders or expert blacksmiths, even selling their products to the settled
groups from which they had acquired these skills or resources. Nomads have also
acquired a taste for personal ornamentation and tobacco, and many have become
inveterate smokers (apart from those who have adopted Christian evangelist
beliefs, mainly during the latter half of the twentieth century and generally
located in Sarawak).
Nomadic groups maintain corpora of oral literature that include songs,
myths, and folk tales. Although most now play their settled neighbours’ three-
stringed lute, nomads’ musical instruments in the past were probably limited to
those that could be manufactured on the spot or were easily portable: the flute,
the Jew’s harp, and the bamboo zither. Dances, which some nomads do not
actually practise, most often appear to have been adopted from neighbouring
settled groups.
As with hunter-gatherers in other parts of the world, those in Borneo
traditionally have the following in common: sharing of perishable goods
(generally food); a view that the earth is the source of all their benefits; and all
that occurs naturally in the world is imbued with spiritual force (see Lee and
Daly 1999). Nomads, like farmers, seem to acknowledge the existence of a
personal soul, or sometimes more than one. At the death of an individual, the
soul becomes a spirit or ghost, which is potentially dangerous. Unlike farmers,
who defuse risk to themselves by ritually escorting a spirit to an after-world,
nomads prefer simply to flee from a place where a death has occurred. The
simplicity, both material and ritual, of nomads’ funerary practices may no doubt
be linked to their vague and non-dogmatic notion of what happens to the spirit
(see Voeks and Sercombe 2000). Even after a period of close contact with farming
peoples, sometimes entailing the adoption of belief in a final abode for spirits of
the dead and of certain funerary rituals, the practice of abandoning the site
where a death has taken place still persists among nomads.
Other expressions of nomads’ ritual life are generally just as minimal as those
relating to death. Neither birth nor marriage is a ritually important event, and
23
no rites of passage are performed for these or other stages of the life cycle (see
Sercombe in this volume). Contrary to farmers, for whom all activities related to
rice agriculture are highly ritualised, nomads have few traditional prohibitions
taboos, charms or amulets, auguries, or rituals relative to food production, i.e.,
the extraction of sago, hunting, or gathering. Also, farmers have numerous rituals
linked to the house, its erection, cleansing, and spiritual welfare, while nomads
have none.
Many of the beliefs and rituals that may be observed today among half or
fully settled nomads seem to have been borrowed from one or another of their
farming neighbours, and generally occur in considerably simplified forms. This
is the case with regard to a belief in omen birds, commonly found among many
nomadic groups, and to shamanic healing or exorcism ceremonies for the sick,
when the expertise of neighbouring Dayak may be called upon. Particular rituals
(selamatan) and taboos, related to the collection of forest products for trade, have
clearly been introduced by coastal outsiders (Sellato 2001: 99).
Some groups of nomads recognise two creator deities, whose relationship and
gender vary. Most nomads, however, view these gods as having withdrawn a long
time ago from the affairs of the world, and they rarely mention, invoke, or call
upon them for blessings or assistance. More generally, they appear much less
concerned than farmers do with their own gods, while nomads’ gods do not
appear to be recognised among farming groups.
The remarkable near-absence of rites, and possibly the existence of a specific
pantheon, suggests that the religion of nomad societies in Borneo represents a
system of belief and practice distinct from those of the farming groups. It is
probable that all the nomadic groups of Borneo have in common a core of
religious beliefs unique to them. Nevertheless, nomads clearly tend to constitute
a rather secular society, practical and pragmatic in its outlook, and little
consideration is given to religious conviction or activity (see Endicott 1979).
Economy and Politics

Historically, many nomadic groups of the interior of Borneo have had only
sporadic contact with outsiders, including their nearest neighbours. Such contact
may have arisen in the form of conflict, not over abstract concepts of territory,
but rather over forest resources, on which nomads have long been reliant for their
basic subsistence. Thus, nomadic groups sometimes clashed over sago groves. As
trade contacts developed between nomads and farmers, conflict came to focus on
commercial forest products. Having vested interests in reserving such resources
for themselves, farmers often prompted their nomad partners to fight off collectors
24
Introduction
from other ethnic groups encroaching, in order to exploit these products, on

territories that they considered theirs (see Sellato 1994a). In recent decades, some
nomads have reacted angrily to outside parties coming to their territories to exploit
rainforest resources, solely for commercial reasons and in an excessive fashion
from their point of view (see Brosius in this volume for a discussion of this issue,
with regard to Penan groups in different areas of Sarawak).
Most nomads began trading with neighbouring farming groups acting as
middlemen for coastal traders, and farmers have tried to form lasting bonds with
nomadic bands, so as to guarantee a steady supply of forest products. Through
trade, farmers have introduced new technological elements (such as metal tools
and dogs), allowing nomads to minimise the time and effort spent in subsistence
activities. Nomads have, as a result, been able to devote more time to commercial
collecting. However, such goods have become indispensable needs and nomads,
dependent on trade, have been obliged to undertake more collecting to satisfy
these needs.
Farmers’ profit from trade and their regional political power depend much on
their supply of forest products. They have often tried to bind nomads to them
through debt, blood pacts, and intermarriage. Where nomads have become
subordinates, they have performed all sorts of chores for their patrons, including
headhunting and slave-raiding. Another result of this nomad–farmer relationship
has been the establishment of a trade hamlet, where several nomad families reside
and become involved in basic horticulture (the production of low-technology
crops). With an increasing number of men leaving their families at the hamlet
and gathering forest products, trade itself becomes maximal. This situation, a
profitable one for both farmers and nomads, can lead to a stable mixed economic
system, which may be maintained over a long period.
The introduction of rice cultivation to nomads occurred relatively soon after
that of horticulture. Some groups of nomads may become full-time farmers and
assimilate to their neighbours’ society. A consequence, however, can be that rice
farming hinders collectors’ mobility, and the yield of forest products decreases as
nomads settle in earnest. Some groups of nomads have therefore not committed
themselves to serious rice farming, considering commercial collecting a more
advantageous activity. Indeed, some of today’s so-called nomads are often semi-
settled, deriving their subsistence from horticulture and an income from
commercial collecting.
Finally, the orientation of nomads’ social organisation, as they settle, depends
on a number of factors, one of which may be the type of organisation of their
nearest settled neighbours. The influence of farmers’ societies has led in some
25
instances to the borrowing by formerly nomadic groups of the concept and

practice of social stratification and the establishment of hereditary leadership.
Many groups, however, still maintain their egalitarian organisation, sometimes
explicitly.
Significant features, which Borneo’s nomads share with hunter-gatherers
worldwide, are pragmatism in economic choices and a preference for immediate-
return economic strategies (see Woodburn 1982). Nomads tend to opt for what
they believe is the most profitable short-term enterprise with regard to both
subsistence and commercial fields. Even after settling down, nomads often
continue to show a taste for spatial mobility and occupational variety (see Kaskija
in this volume). The result is that they are generally flexible in their economic
pursuits, as long as these do not entail long-term labour investment and a delayed
return in terms of profit realisation (which is a prerequisite of rice farming).
Their mobility with regard to time and space allows them to seize opportunities
where and when they occur, especially if an immediate profit can be derived
from these (see Headland 2002: 28, on Agta lowlanders of the Philippines,
previously hunter-gatherers, whose main form of livelihood is now wage labour).
This kind of economic versatility enables nomads to vary their activities from
one month to the next: Traditional food gathering, commercial collecting, gold
panning, commercial hunting, handicraft making, horticulture, salaried work as
lumberjacks, and tourist guides are some of the activities in which they are often
involved. Clearly, permanent residence in a resettlement village is not likely to be
compatible with this approach to life. The emerging view is that economic
versatility, as opposed to a more focused occupational approach, such as rice
farming, is a safeguard against a risk of starving, not too unlike hunter-gatherers’
previously full-time nomadic way of life.
Identity and Ideology

Nomads’ sense of identity at the level of the local ethnic group often remains
vaguely defined, despite the sometimes shared memory of an ancient centre of
dispersal, of a traditional territory, which may give a group a certain sense of
place, but sometimes this recollection itself is lost. Local identity, nevertheless,
is important as the group’s history is rooted in a terroir, a landscape (see Brosius
1986), and this is especially relevant in the nomads’ modern circumstances (see
Brosius in this volume).
More importantly, however, Borneo’s nomads, even when fully settled, tend
to remain quite distinct from their farming Dayak neighbours. This distinction,
26
Introduction
recognised by former nomads themselves, as well as by farmers – who generally

continue to look down upon them as (former) primitives (see Rousseau 1990) – is
based on ideology, an implicit theme of a number of chapters in the volume,
particularly Sellato’s (on the Kalimantan Punan).
Each farming group have their own ideological premises: Some tend to form
a largely egalitarian society, like the Iban; others operate within a strict system of
social stratification, like the Kayan; others still strive to achieve status in an open,
competitive society, like the Ngaju. Apart from the type of social organisation,
group ideology generally revolves around rice farming – just as it may be focused
on boats and the sea among maritime peoples.
Likewise, Borneo’s nomads have their own ideological premises. Contrary to
farmers, however, these premises are rarely elaborated upon in ritual or in
discourse. Their neighbours are not interested in nomads’ discourse, and it is
only recently that anthropologists have come to take a substantial interest in how
nomads think about themselves (see Bird-David 1990, Barnard 2002, and
Klimut and Puri in this volume, an extensive and eloquent monologue by a
Punan elder). Significant aspects of nomads’ ideologies are ‘immediacy’,
‘autonomy’, and ‘sharing’ (Ingold 1999: 408), which are often at odds with the
principles of modern civil societies. These aspects are best gleaned from
observation of nomads’ informal and flexible approach to the world.
Although modes of production have changed much in the last half century,
certain basic ideological features have tended to persist among Borneo’s former
nomads, through technological, economic, and political change. What has often
remained unchanged is a general nomadic outlook, or ideology. This is tied to
philosophy and social organisation, which are often similar across many past
(and present) hunting and gathering groups (see Lee and Daly 1999). While this
permits the adoption of new economic strategies, these in turn may help preserve
basic Punan values and world view in the modern age. Almost without exception,
nomads in Borneo have a feeling of ‘Punan-ness’ (Sellato 1994a) or ‘Penan-ness’,
based on the kind of shared outlook described above.
This ideology need not be legitimised by custom, or upheld by reference to a
body of oral tradition. Rather, it is rooted in each individual, a form of socio-
cultural acquisition, which is confirmed in daily social and cultural practices.
Common to all nomads, this feeling affirms a ‘nomadic identity,’ in contrast to
the identities of farmers. As Kaskija (1998: 356) noted: ‘[t]he flexible, forest-
oriented way of life, built on self sufficiency, family autonomy, mobility, sharing
and immediate return, gives a very distinct sense of identity and continuity to
Punan society’.
27
In his study of the Punan Tubu, Kaskija listed eight interdependent

aspects of culture, ‘intricately interwoven into a very complex pattern or process,
[…] that is distinctly and uniquely Punan’ (Kaskija 1998: 355). These
are: orientation toward the forest; flexibility, opportunism and immediate
return; openness to the outside world; external inferiority; internal social
equality; generosity and demand sharing; nostalgia and self-pity; conservatism
and resistance. Whereas generosity and demand sharing are features found
among nomadic groups worldwide, nostalgia and self-pity might be more
specific to Borneo’s nomads. This involves a clear tendency for people to sit in
idleness together and brood silently over or complain aloud about hardship and
misfortune (pelulup urip), in an ‘emotionalization of group solidarity’ (ibid.:
351; see also Kaskija in this volume). Punan Tubu pelulup urip displays some
similarity to the ‘learned helplessness’ that Dentan (2000: 33) describes about
the Semai of Malaysia, a syndrome that he views as resulting from an experience
of powerlessness. The common recourse to painkillers and alcohol (see Chan in
this volume), although not restricted to Borneo, could be viewed here as a
related response.
In the course of historical and modern change, nomads have borrowed from
neighbours socio-cultural elements that they have carefully selected and flexibly
adapted to minimise challenge to their societies’ intrinsic features and, even, help
preserve them. For example, the choice of favouring and developing commercial
collecting, rather than becoming full-time farmers, may be viewed from this
perspective of the preservation of a particular type of society. More generally,
such ideologies promote the persistence of nomadic societies in the modern
world.
The contrast proposed by Kaskija (1998), between ‘external inferiority’ and
‘internal social equality’, recognises an embedded nomadic culture, beneath
external layers of culture, or a public face, a trait noted among other hunting-
gathering groups around the world (see, e.g., Turnbull 1961). This ‘internal
culture’ has been correlated (Sellato 1994a) with the Weberian and Durkheimian
concept of habitus. It is a system, of lasting and transferable patterns of thought
and behaviour, which regulates social and economic activities and is passed on
from generation to generation through all the vicissitudes of history and the
changes taking place in the ‘external culture’, and which has come to concur
today with the common definition of ‘culture’ as a symbolic system or world
view. With that ‘core of culture’, which Dumont identified with ideology (e.g.,
Dumont 1986), the reproduction and continuity of society may be guaranteed.
With reference to some Borneo nomads, attention is also drawn (by Kaskija, in
28
Introduction
this volume) to a common process of cultural ‘code-switching’ (a chameleon-like

strategy), whereby people shift with facility from their internal culture to that of
another group, and back, according to context.
The persistence of this internal culture, which is manifested in a contrast
between nomads and historically full-time farmers, lies at the core of nomads’
feeling of ‘Punan-ness’, and this feeling continues to persist widely, among many
groups of former nomads, as is evidenced in many of the chapters in this volume.
NOMADS AND CHANGE

This section deals with issues related to change and some of the various ways in
which we perceive it to have affected nomadic groups in Borneo.
Nomadic societies change. Challenging Woodburn’s assertion (1982) that
egalitarian societies are relatively stable, Brunton (1989) has shown that true
egalitarian societies (that is, immediate-return hunting-gathering societies) are
always potentially unstable, because of their openness, cultural fluidity,
susceptibility to acculturation, and low levels of collective representation, and that
cultural loss can go as far as causing these groups to move across cultural and
linguistic boundaries (e.g., the Mbuti Pygmies, Batek Negritos, Paliyan, and Hill
Panderam). There is no doubt that the nomadic societies of Borneo fit well into
this picture – although we will refrain here from following Brunton’s blunt and
definitive statement that true egalitarian societies are just not viable.
After briefly considering nomads’ relations with their farming neighbours and
the colonial and post-colonial state, we summarise below nomads’ current
circumstances in terms of the challenges that they presently appear to face from the
imposition of development (as generally conceived and realised by those in positions
of state or national authority), wider (and often global) market pressures, and the
responses of Punan and Penan groups to these challenges, as the twenty-first
century takes hold.
Again, it should be stressed here that variation (among different groups, often
according to region) is sometimes striking, e.g., between the Penan of Brunei (see
Sercombe in this volume) and the Punan of Kalimantan (see Sellato in this volume).
In eastern Sarawak, responses to logging by Eastern Penan and Western Penan have
been strongly divergent (see Brosius in this volume). Moreover, intra-group variation
is also often significant, as between the Punan of Tubu and Malinau (see Kaskija in
this volume; see also Kent 1996).
In order to prevent ambiguity in the use of the terms Punan, Penan, and ‘Borneo
nomads’ (given that few are nomadic today), we have chosen, in the pages below, to
29
use the term ‘Pnan’ to refer collectively and indiscriminately to nomadic groups of
Borneo, whether in Sarawak, Brunei, or Kalimantan, whether they are now still
nomadic, semi-nomadic, or completely settled, and irrespective of their past or
present ethnonyms (autonyms or exonyms; this includes groups that never referred
themselves as either Penan or Punan). The transcription Pnan reflects the
phonological rendition of Penan and Punan, uttered with a schwa after the initial
unvoiced bilabial.
The term Pnan is thus used here generically to include all those groups known
to have been nomads, unless reference is being made to a specific (named) group or,
intentionally, to ‘nomads’, ‘nomadic groups’, or ‘former nomads’. The relevance of
the use of Pnan, which should be obvious with regard to their common, past or
present, way of life, also stands with regard to present ideas and images that these
groups have of themselves, and particularly in the current context of a growing,
island-wide awareness of ‘Pnan-ness’, which expresses itself through the emergence
of socio-political associations, cross-island meetings, and other cultural displays of
a common identity.
Historical Background
In the course of the last few centuries, the circumstances of nomads in Borneo,
or Pnan, have changed enormously (and Chan, in this volume, provides a salient
example) as have ideas about and images of them. Their sole relations, at the
local level and in the ‘tribal’ mode, with their settled farming neighbours have
persisted, but have progressively given way to contact of another type, with
centralised power structures. To begin with, this outside contact was with
colonial powers, whose policies were enacted principally at a provincial level,
often through an administrator based in a district seat. More recently, following
national independence (in Indonesia and Malaysia), contact of a higher order has
emerged with representatives of the nation-state, and seemingly (to Pnan at least)
with more abstract, globally oriented priorities (see Early and Headland 1998, on
three major stages of Casiguran Agta history).
Let us first consider the pre-colonial situation. Most nomadic groups had
developed trade relationships with neighbouring farming groups, focused on forest
products in demand by coastal markets. This led to various patterns of client–
patron or vassal–overlord bonds and to economic and political affiliation of nomadic
groups to their neighbours. Patterns of farmer–Pnan relationships show a gradation,
based on the intensity of trade and proximity from coastal trade ports (see Healey
1985, Rousseau 1989, 1990).
30
Introduction
In coastal regions, petty states controlled trade at the mouths of rivers, and
groups of ‘nomads’ – more or less nomadic, since many were assigned the task of
guarding bird’s nest caves – were subordinated to a coastal king. Upstream along
the same rivers, farming tribal groups had ‘their’ Pnan closely affiliated, though not
enslaved, who exploited bird’s nest caves and other commercial forest resources for
their patrons’ benefit. Further inland, nomadic groups were often under the
direction of a prominent farming group, but as ‘allies’ or partners rather than as
dependent labour. While farming chieftains had ways of coaxing nomads into
collecting forest products and conducting trade exclusively with them, they could
not coerce nomads, lest they withdrew from trade contacts. Such partnerships
could be quite stable through time, and some Pnan bands willingly followed their
partners in migrations to new lands. Finally, in the most isolated areas, other
nomadic bands freely ranged vast stretches of uninhabited mountains between
major river basins, maintaining shifting associations with various farming groups
across water divides, according to the economic and political situations of the time.
Thus, relationships between Pnan and farmers were influenced by patterns of trade
that existed between them and by their geographical locations (Rousseau 1990,
Sellato 2001).
In terms of ethnicity, the type of social organisation of tribal farming groups
appears to have been a major factor in their evolving relations with their nomadic
trade partners and in the latter’s historical shift to a more sedentary way of life and
the adoption of agricultural practices. A strong contrast between stratified societies,
such as the Kayan, forming ‘closed’ or bounded groups, and non-stratified societies,
such as the Iban, forming ‘open’ groups, accounts for distinct social attitudes
towards nomads, to the effect that nomads, through trade and cultural intercourse,
have assimilated more readily into non-stratified groups than into stratified
groups. In fine, the ‘open’ versus ‘closed’ factor appears to determine the loss or
retention of nomads’ ethnicity (see Sellato in this volume). Not surprisingly, the
general area where distinctive hunting-gathering groups are now located or have
been known to exist in the last century is approximately the same as the area of
settlement of stratified farming groups (see Map 1.1; also, Rousseau 1990).
While it is not relevant here to dwell on Borneo’s colonial history (for recent
works, see, e.g., Black 1985, Lindblad 1988, Magenda 1991 for Kalimantan; and
numerous classic works on Sarawak and Sabah), it should be stressed that only in
the 1920s did remote interior regions come under full control of colonial
administrations, whose impact should therefore not be overestimated (see Bodley
1999, for a global account). In Kalimantan and Sarawak alike, the colonial powers’
policies tended to allow local social organisation and customs to retain legitimacy
31
and for local leaders to retain their authority, provided they acknowledged the new
rulers and did not revolt.
Throughout the period of their authority, the colonial powers extensively
explored their new domains, pacified the hinterlands and subdued independent
tribes, abolished headhunting and slavery, established military and administrative
posts, conducted censuses, opened or reopened and maintained trade routes,
facilitated river traffic, established market places, improved health facilities,
introduced technological innovations and formal education, eased the way for the
incursion of foreign religions, and levied door or head taxes (directly or through
local sultans). They significantly affected interethnic relations by setting external
constraints on their ongoing local dynamics, such as the deliberate eradication of
headhunting, by both the British in Sarawak and the Dutch in Kalimantan. For
the sake of communities’ improved access to facilities, as well as for that of the
administration’s better control over them, they also altered traditional settlement
patterns.
Through farming groups, the colonial powers came into contact with scores of
nomadic groups in remote areas. Since the first expeditions to the far hinterland in
the late nineteenth century, both the British and Dutch recognised these nomadic
groups as separate ethnocultural entities, ethnic groups in their own right, whereas
the farming groups had viewed nomads as appendages of their own world (see both
Thambiah and Sellato in this volume). In the early twentieth century, the colonial
authorities set out to resettle Pnan in permanent locations, both out of a sense of
their civilising mission and out of pity for nomads being taken advantage of in
trade by farmers (on changing European ideas of hunter-gatherers, see Barnard
1999). The role of colonial governments, in this process, in identifying and naming
Pnan groups and in developing a new perception of their own ethnocultural identity
should be stressed.
By the end of the colonial period, many Pnan groups had become disenclaved
and a substantial portion of them were already half-settled, positioned in the
uppermost settlements of their river basins, not far upstream from the last farming
villages.
The first 15 years after World War II realised little official interest in Borneo’s
nomads, in either Sarawak or the young Republic of Indonesia, both of which were
engaged on other fronts. It was the Confrontation between Indonesia and the newly
created Federation of Malaysia that strongly contributed to the re-opening of
the interior regions and, later, a renewed interest in their development. In the late
1960s, official agencies intervened at village level to bring improvement in the
fields of health and education. Programs were established to encourage nomadic or
32
Introduction
half-nomadic groups to gather, settle, and take up agriculture. A further reason was
that nomads projected a poor image of the nation abroad, one of backwardness and
primitivism. In the name of development, hunting and gathering was a way of life
to be eradicated. Programs to this end continued through the 1970s and 1980s.
Eventually, rice-husking mills, electricity, agricultural extension assistance, among
other projects, reached many isolated villages of former nomads and only small
numbers of nomads remained clinging to their traditional life ways.
The late 1960s and early 1970s saw the beginning of the timber boom, which
hardly affected the Pnan. It was only in the early 1980s that logging first began to
penetrate the regions in which Pnan lived. Some Pnan groups participated eagerly
in the exploitation of their territories, while some resisted.
From the mid-1980s onwards came the non-timber-forest-product boom, with
prices for some products rising hugely, reaching unprecedented prices in the 1990s
(e.g., birds’ nests and aloe wood), a phenomenon in which many Pnan groups were
involved. One important side effect, a result of the Pnan’s economic opportunism,
was that settled or half-settled groups, deserting their villages, returned to the
forest.
Furthermore, in the 1980s and 1990s, nature reserves and national parks were
established in Sarawak and Kalimantan. With the advent of these, came a handful
of environmentalist organisations, set to protect the rainforest from logging
companies. These were followed in turn by organisations geared towards social and
economic development and poverty alleviation, as well as by rights advocacy
organisations, some to defend the traditional people’s rights against loggers, and
others, ironically, to protect them from nature conservation programs. Through
contact with international non-government organisations (NGOs), flocks of local,
grassroots NGOs were also born.
Early in the twenty-first century, Pnan have become more educated, and more
aware of the ways of the machinations of the modern world. They are likely to
use the Internet more often than the message sticks that their forefathers placed in
the forest. But Pnan find themselves in complex situations, where many outsiders
are eager to seize the lands that Pnan previously roamed and the resources that
these contain, and just as many outsiders are eager to ‘assist’ Pnan communities.
Consequently, it is not easy to ascertain which parties are most likely to bring them
some benefit (as discussed by Kaskija, and Klimut and Puri, in this volume, with
regard to different Pnan communities). Their social landscape includes a range of
government agencies, sometimes with conflicting goals; loggers, mining companies,
and plantation estates; outside church and lay organisations – national and
international – active in nature conservation, economic development, and rights
33
advocacy, including cultural rights; and their own, local organisations, often also
with conflicting goals. The Pnan’s socio-scape today may be likened to a large
market place, in the same way that the forest may have appeared to their hunting
and gathering grandfathers, albeit the choices open to them may seem opaque, with
unforeseeable results.
Facing the Twenty-First Century

Despite their wide geographical dispersion and differences in their local and
national circumstances, most Pnan groups have been facing similar kinds of
challenges. This section considers these circumstances and challenges, and some
of the responses of Pnan groups, in recent times.
The modern world has intruded ubiquitously upon the lives of nomadic
peoples, and there can no longer be any nomadic community whose way of
life has not been threatened or, at least, challenged by the circumstances of
the industrial and post-industrial world (see Sahlins 1974 [1972]; Salzman
1982: ix; and Hitchcock and Biesele 2000). Interestingly, The Cambridge
Encyclopedia of Hunters and Gatherers (Lee and Daly 1999) devotes a whole
section to their circumstances in the modern world, with three chapters
considering dimensions of the interface between hunting and gathering
peoples and outside forces, and the effects of the latter. Change, however, is
not just a feature of modern times. Pnan have been adapting to incursion
and innovation throughout the history of their contact with other peoples
(e.g., the introduction of iron).
Social change, nonetheless, is generally incremental, not sudden. No pre-iron,
pre-dog, hunting and gathering band in Borneo had suddenly and without
warning, for example, to confront bulldozers intruding in its forests. Major social
changes are quite likely to result from accumulated smaller shifts over long
periods, e.g., when nomads have become sedentary, they have generally done so
progressively, over a protracted period, and have often retained social and cultural
features of their past life ways subsequent to settlement (see Seitz 1981, Sercombe
and Chan in this volume). The Pnan groups had already long been familiar with
the lives of their settled neighbours and with swiddening by the time they
themselves were induced to take up farming.
Settling down, in conjunction with social and political influence from their
neighbours, has resulted in many significant changes in nomads’ lives. Not the
least has been the transformation of residence patterns, from a transitory nomadic
camp of shelters (with a shelter being home to a nuclear family), to a permanent
village of houses (each house accommodating an extended family). Another
34
Introduction
change has been reduced cooperation, in some cases, among families in food-
production activities and, in many instances, the decrease or disappearance of
traditional forms of sharing or exchange of goods or services (see Sercombe
1996a). The sexual division of labour has also begun to take on different forms,
with women devoting their time to tending gardens and growing crops while
men are in the jungle. New concepts of ownership have begun to apply to
foodstuffs, produced or acquired separately, and to plots of farm land, and
subsequently certain notions of private property have developed.
Three key factors are crucial in understanding Pnan’s situations, as is the
case for many ethnic minorities around the world: top-down ‘development’
forces, liberal market forces, and social groups as free agents. In the case of most
Pnan groups, these three factors have been extant for centuries, as has been
described above. Farming groups, colonial powers, and modern nation-states
have each, at different stages, encouraged nomads to settle and take up full-time
collecting activities, farming, or salaried work, each for their own reasons
(commercial, economic, political, ideological, or philosophical); regional (or
global) markets demand certain types of products from the tropical rainforest
and these demands have had a range of positive and negative effects on Pnan;
Pnan as free agents have had to consider for themselves, often at the nuclear
family level, what is most appropriate and beneficial for them, and to try and
achieve their goals (as discussed by Kaskija in this volume). This triangular
dynamic has been in constant fluctuation, particularly in the last half century,
when the range of choice has broadened. More recently, a fourth factor, in the
shape of NGOs, has entered the equation, and these have been ambiguously
positioned: some are undoubtedly in a top-down role, although they might
repudiate this view; others (or the same) assume a role of representation of Pnan,
although Pnan would not always endorse their stated position. Some of the ways
in which NGOs can contribute to the welfare of Pnan are discussed by Ngo in
this volume (see also Sellato 2001).
Regarding the circumstances of Pnan at the present time, it is particularly
important to comprehend their relations with centres of power, chiefly
institutional power. The modern nation-states of Indonesia, Malaysia, and
Brunei have imposed change, generally under the banner of ‘development,’ on
minorities occupying often remote areas of their territories. While it is not our
intention to discuss general concepts of ‘development’, it is pertinent to quote
Dentan et al.’s (1997: 3) definition, with reference to Southeast Asia: ‘the process
by which a country harnesses its natural and human resources to produce wealth
rather than merely leaving its citizens to provide for its own needs. This has
35
usually meant replacing subsistence economies with a market economy.’ The

importance ascribed to development by those in power has become not only a
way of replacing (or eradicating) traditional cultures, but also a way of abating
obstacles to development, which may exist within the framework of traditional
cultures. Such a narrow idea of development linked to national priorities,
economic (in the form of industrialisation) and political (here, ideological),
contrasts considerably with Sen’s view of development as freedom, seen ‘as a
process for expanding the real freedoms people enjoy’. Such freedoms need to be
enhanced, Sen (1999: 4) suggests, because ‘achieving development depends on
the free agency of people’.
The most common political reason for imposing development on minority
groups has focused on ‘national economic progress’ and ‘national unity’, which
have what Winzeler (1997: 2) has termed a ‘sacred aura in the civic discourse of
developing states’. What is more, social change, seen through the official prism
of development, has tended to be understood as not only a natural but also a
uniform process – witness Indonesia’s highly centralised, standardised system of
civil administration. Programs designed for the economic development of a
region have often had a negative impact on the minority peoples whose
homelands are ‘developed’, a consequence of the state’s failure to consider these
peoples’ interests (see Tan 1997). Domination of minorities through ‘state
paternalism’, however, has generally been seen as in their best interests, and
officially prescribed action as inevitably bound to make life better for groups
upon whom it is imposed.
Another political reason for the imposition of development has taken, ever
since colonial times, a more humanitarian colour. It is a legacy of colonialism
and assumes that materially poor, isolated nomads have to be brought into the
mainstream of civilisation. It is inconceivable that nomads should not benefit
from government education and health facilities (see Headland 2002: 28–29, on
the reasons for the failure of a Philippine government free lunch project among
the Agta). Related to this, is the notion that the very existence of hunting and
gathering nomads is an embarrassment to a modern nation. Nomadic groups are
officially seen to portray a backward image and this has influenced states’
determination to settle nomads and, often, to settle them downstream, closer to
administrative centres, schools, hospitals, and markets, i.e., away from their
traditional territories (see Trigger 1999: 476). Consequently, governments have
often argued for the necessity of displacing rural indigenous peoples in order that
they can gain better access to government-provided facilities and become
incorporated into mainstream society (see Nicholas 2000: 48).
36
Introduction
A corollary of development has been the opening of areas occupied by

minority groups to the commercial exploitation, on an industrial scale, of their
valuable resources, which are believed essential for the economic development of
a country. Mineral deposits, timber, and large bodies of water (for hydroelectric
dams) are valuable assets for the state to exploit, and so is land itself, for plantation
estates (e.g., for oil palm) or, in Kalimantan, for settling ‘transmigrants’ from
other islands. Whether or not the land, and what it contains, is constitutionally
the property of the state, its utilisation by the state for the sake of national
economic development has been viewed as perfectly legitimate. In certain parts
of Borneo, as in many other countries, this exploitation may have been carried
out illegally by corporations benefiting from a government’s tacit approval.
In some instances, these resources themselves no longer exist, as village territories,
e.g., in West Kalimantan, have been converted to large state-owned plantation
estates. Villagers have, in some cases, even become plantation coolies on lands
that were previously their own, and thus unequivocally marginalised. The more
successful the development, i.e., the more resources are extracted, as Dove (1996:
42) has noted, the less likely indigenous inhabitants of an area of rainforest will
retain any kind of jurisdiction.
A further adjunct to development has been the use by the state of general
structures of administration, education, religious ideology and specific development
programs, as conduits to promote national ideologies and the dominant political
parties (e.g. Golkar in Indonesia, and UMNO in Malaysia) to minority groups
(see, e.g., Doolittle 2001), thus sidelining or even denigrating these groups’ own
social and cultural priorities in the process.
The overall result of composite state action in ‘developing’ minority groups
has been a partial integration of these groups into mainstream national cultures,
with some associated improvement in terms of education and health and the
evanescence of traditional cultures (locally, an almost total cultural loss; see
Sercombe in this volume); and, often, a displacement of these groups away from
their lands, coinciding with access to, appropriation and exploitation of these
lands by the state and/or officially or unofficially related parties. While some
minority groups become more involved in mainstream networks (see Ngo in this
volume), they may also have become economically disenfranchised and cut off
from their traditional resources (as exemplified by Chan, in this volume).
The trend described above has variously been called ‘internal colonialism’ or
‘fourth-world colonialism’ (for a general reference work on the subject of
indigenous peoples and the state, see Maybury-Lewis 1997). The underlying
point is that the state does not want its indigenous peoples to remain who they
37
are, and that it wants access to the resources that these peoples’ marginal lands
contain.
In the last 50 years, Pnan groups have experienced intensively the effects of
their respective country’s modern administration. To a greater or lesser extent, they
have been censused, medically immunised, sent to school, made to join the national
workforce as agricultural extension workers, and turned into village dwellers.
Probably less than 50 per cent of the total area of the island of Borneo remains
under forest cover today, and deforestation keeps progressing at an alarming rate.
Logging companies dramatically increased their activities in the 1970s,
concessions now cover three quarters of extant forested areas, and loggers have
steadily moved inland from coastal and lower-river regions, building roads to
gain access to the most remote areas of the island (see Chan in this volume, for a
case in point). The export of timber products, in the form of logs and, more
recently, plywood earned states controlling Borneo’s forests an estimated seven
billion US$ in 1996. More recently there has been the establishment of large
wood pulp factories in parts of Kalimantan. Enormous plantation estates of oil
palm and rubber have multiplied, spreading over broad expanses of forest. Other
industrial incursions, in the form of major coal and gold mines have been
established, along with giant hydro-electric dams (see Chan in this volume)
and transmigration resettlement sites, which have also contributed to the
huge reduction in forest acreage. Furthermore, major forest fires in Kalimantan
in the 1980s and 1990s (either deliberate or accidental) have caused much
irretrievable damage. All this has entailed the erosion of watersheds and,
subsequently, both severe droughts and floods in coastal regions. (On deforestation
and its socio-economic impact, see Dove 1993a, 1996, Brookfield et al. 1995,
Padoch and Peluso 1996.) In several regions, the Pnan’s lands have significantly
shrunk (but see Sellato in this volume) and their languages and cultural traditions
are now endangered (see Nettle and Romaine 2000).
Wherever their lands and resources have not been reduced, destroyed, or
seized by the state or other outside parties, the minority groups of Borneo,
including Pnan, continue to utilise them themselves. It is here that Dentan et
al.’s (1997) comment on ‘replacing subsistence economies with a market economy’
must be qualified. Most Pnan groups have long been participating in a market
economy and, in the last few decades, they have certainly become more involved
in the regional modern market economy at the expense of traditional subsistence
activities. The reason for this lies in the increase in the trade in non-timber forest
products (see Peluso 1983, De Beer and McDermott 1989, Fox 1995, Brosius
1995a, Puri 1997a, Van Valkenburg 1997, Sellato 2001).
38
Introduction
Many Pnan groups, at some point in their history, became commercial

collectors of non-timber forest products (see Sellato 1994a). Until the 1970s and
even well into the 1980s, they remained virtually left alone in their territories,
vast expanses of forest beyond the farmers’ world, to exploit these products,
principally because collecting was hard physical work and profits were small.
Traders from downstream arranged for the purchase and shipping of these
products to coastal markets (on the modalities of this trade, see Sellato 2001).
Although competition did occur locally between Pnan and professional collectors
from downstream, outsiders often contented themselves with reaping the profits
from their role as middlemen.
In the late 1980s, an unprecedented boom in non-timber commercial forest
products occurred, concerning mainly edible birds’ nests and aloe wood. In
1995, top-quality aloe wood was fetching from US$ 500 to US$ 1,000 per kg,
and top-quality birds’ nests could earn about twice as much (sometimes leading
to conflicts over resource ownership, as described by Ngo, in this volume).
Traders, in order to secure supplies, sponsored Pnan collecting activities, creating
new needs among them and keeping them in debt; many Pnan began to live on
credit, some even subsisting on purchased rice and no longer farming or collecting
foods for their own subsistence. Although often cheated, Pnan have tended to
feel that they were making a good living and that they were relatively wealthy
because they owned outboard engines, chainsaws, cassette-players, and
wristwatches, all purchased on credit. Those Pnan who have settled not
infrequently fail at growing rice (both qualitatively and quantitatively) and see
their economic situations deteriorate significantly, with the consequence that
many choose to carry on or revert to collecting wild forest products.
The issue of sedentarism and of the lack of success at converting Pnan to
farming is also associated with their involvement in the commercial collection of
forest products, which largely predates the advent of colonial times. Since the
1960s, government programs in Sarawak and Kalimantan have attempted to
settle Pnan, often trying to convert them to full-time rice farming. Sedentarism
has tended to be viewed as a necessary stage in an evolutionary process and
studies have considered closely how long it takes for nomads to make a ‘full’
transition to settlement (e.g., Langub 1974a, Nicolaisen 1976b, Chan’s and
Sercombe’s chapters in this volume). Various reasons, mostly economic, account
for failure in their settlement process, among which Langub (1996a: 116) has
noted that, for three out of six groups under his scrutiny, lack of adequate access
to and control of land (i.e., tenure rights) has been significant in hindering
sedentarism. The Punan Tabang underwent three consecutive, yet unsuccessful,
39
resettlement programs (Sellato 2002b). In many cases, via their reluctance to

commit to permanent settlement, Pnan make explicit where their priorities lie.
Today, as noted before, many Pnan are official residents of resettlement
villages but, sometimes, part of the population may be away in the forest,
collecting forest products for trade. When their village is too far from their
traditional collecting lands and no new forested lands have been allocated to
them, Pnan communities may split. Such is the case of the Punan Tubu, leading
to one group elder’s comment that neither resettling downstream nor remaining
in or returning to upstream lands is perceived as of particular benefit (as described
by Klimut and Puri, in this volume). One case of prompt and almost total
sedentarism is worth mentioning, that of the Penan of Brunei. While still
nomadic until a few decades ago, they have become largely estranged from
the forest, one cause being that collecting forest products is not commercially
viable in Brunei, another being the government’s social and religious policies
(Sercombe in this volume).
The potential profits, not just from trading but also from collecting, have
brought hordes of outsiders – from downriver Dayak and coastal Muslims to job
seekers from other islands – into Pnan territories, competing with them for
commercial collecting. These outsiders, more numerous, better equipped, and
often with strong political backing in coastal towns, have competed efficiently
with Pnan (see Trigger 1999, for an international perspective on this kind of
occurrence). This has prompted a rush, which the Pnan have also been compelled
to enter, and has led to the systematic overexploitation and serious depletion of
commercial natural resources in Borneo’s rainforests (see Momberg et al. 2000).
One example, from the late 1990s and the early years of the new millennium in
Kalimantan, has been the recommencement of wild-cat logging in the interior,
due to Indonesia’s relative law-and-order vacuum. Gold rushes have also occurred
in several regions of Borneo. Outsiders have flocked in, replacing traditional
panning with new technologies, which have resulted in heavy erosion of river
banks, the muddying of waters, and the extinction of certain fish species.
In cases where outsiders have arrived in Pnan territories and established
camps, even temporarily, a frontier-town atmosphere has tended to develop,
along with its usual negative effects – the ‘three evils of civilisation’: alcohol and
drugs consumption; gambling; and prostitution and venereal diseases (see Chan’s
chapter on the issue of drugs as a result of the contacts between Penan and
traders in the commoditisation of forest resources). Pnan, for fear of seeing all
their resources appropriated by outsiders, and powerless to stop them, have in
many instances been pulled into competition, often with both environmentally
40
Introduction
and socially damaging results. While this may be of little consequence to

outsiders, who soon move on to other regions, Pnan remain with depleted
resources, a damaged environment, a weak economic position, and fractured
communities. Furthermore, they have gained little in terms of health, education,
or general welfare, since monies will often have been used to repay debts to
traders (for a recent assessment of Pnan health situation, see Dounias et al.
2004).
Pnan, the World, and Themselves

The fate of hunter-gatherers throughout the modern world is, in many respects,
a similar story played out in different contexts: loss of access to resources, socio-
economic deprivation, and cultural depletion (see Bodley 1999). The recent
intensification of Pnan contact with the state and the wider world, particularly
through attempts at appropriating the lands and resources that they consider
theirs, has resulted in conflict becoming a more common occurrence in their
lives. Pnan, until recently, had tended to avoid direct confrontation, withdrawing
further into the forest rather than fighting for abstract notions such as territory
(see Sellato 1994a), let alone for principles. They now have become (or been
made) aware that they exist as distinct social groupings, and have rights and a
voice to express publicly their needs and aspirations – the role of NGOs in this
new awareness has been examined in detail elsewhere (and see Brosius in this
volume) and will not be dealt with here. While some communities, such as the
Penan of Brunei (Sercombe in this volume) have remained politically passive,
many groups, in Sarawak and Kalimantan, have become active in voicing their
positions as marginalised members of society.
Sentiments among indigenous people regarding attempts at appropriating their
lands and resources have varied from resigned acceptance, or ‘acquiescence’,
sometimes amounting to full participation in the exploitation of their resources
with outside parties, to outright opposition (see Brosius in this volume; Winzeler
1997: 2). In Sarawak, where deforestation has been intense, some still nomadic
Penan groups of the Baram and Limbang river areas have come into open conflict
with logging companies. For these nomads, logging has been gradually destroying
the local environment and their way of life, i.e., the traditional food resources and
non-timber commercial forest products that they exploit. Blockades and sometimes
violent altercations have occurred. The state government, mediating between
the parties but often in fact on the side of outsiders, has been set on bringing
nomads, viewed as a cultural anachronism, into check. These Eastern Penan have
demonstrated unified political action, and have become ‘an icon of resistance for
41
environmentalists worldwide’ (Brosius in this volume), despite some bickering

within communities regarding courses of action. A short distance away, however,
Western Penan have willingly participated in the logging of their lands, partly in
order to benefit from compensation for this, although, at the same time, there has
been bickering among different Western Penan communities regarding their
respective involvement in such projects and the accompanying compensation.
Somehow, as Brosius states, ‘[…] the Western Penan [acquiescence] stands as a
kind of mirror for interpreting Eastern Penan resistance’ (in this volume).
According to Winzeler (1997: 62), it is attempts to make a living with
diminishing resources that have often raised indigenous minorities’ levels of political
awareness and brought them into confrontation with institutions of power. Possibly,
it is rather the occurrence of conflict that has contributed to raising Pnan awareness
of themselves as social groupings above the level of the nuclear family at which they
previously functioned. Conflict, of course, was formerly present in the form of
competition for resources among different indigenous groups. However, while
Eastern Penan have been and may still be concerned with food resources, Western
Penan, like Punan in Kalimantan, have been probably more concerned with trade
resources (see Sellato 2005a).
In Sarawak, the Native Customary Rights (NCR) system has offered some
guarantee that the indigenous peoples of a territory can occupy and work their
traditional lands, although most land has remained ‘untitled’, i.e., not officially
recorded as being under the tenure of these nomads (see Tan 1997; Cleary and
Eaton 1992: 175–189, regarding Penan customary rights and land conflict in
Sarawak; more generally, see Hitchcock 1999). The situation in Kalimantan has
been similar: The Indonesian Constitution declares that land belongs to the ‘People’,
but that the state may dispose of it, unless it is ‘titled’. Recent court cases in Sarawak
established jurisprudence, however, by sustaining native groups’ customary rights
to their lands (e.g., Chan 2001). Likewise, certain Kalimantan Punan groups have
been granted the right to manage their natural resources (see Kaskija in this
volume), although conflicts have arisen with neighbouring farmers who have
claimed that, according to the ‘Central Borneo’ syntax of social relations (i.e., a set
of stratified farming groups; see Rousseau 1990), these Punan were only ever guests
in farmers’ territories (see Sellato in this volume; also, see Headland 2002: 30, on
the Philippines’ 1997 Indigenous Peoples’ Rights Act).
Conflicts of another type have arisen with Pnan in opposition to certain
protected areas (nature reserves and national parks). For example, some Punan
Tubu communities in East Kalimantan, because forest conservation is not among
their priorities and in order to remain able to benefit financially from their timber,
42
Introduction
refused to see their territories becoming part of the Kayan Mentarang National
Park (C. Eghenter, pers. comm.). In West Kalimantan, Pnan groups have, again,
been caught between a local national park’s conservation priorities and global
market pressure. This has been in a context of intense competition for scarce,
valuable resources (in this case, birds’ nests), combined with an imbalance of power
and abuse of official authority (see Ngo in this volume). An Integrated Conservation
and Development Project (ICDP) has been established, aimed at empowering local
communities to both improve their welfare and manage their resources in a
sustainable manner. The value of traditional resource tenure in community-based
natural resource management has been widely documented (see, e.g., Poffenberger
1990, Kottak 1995, Folke and Berkes 1998; with reference to Borneo, see Redford
and Padoch 1992, Abdoellah et al. 1993, Padoch and Peluso 1996, Colfer et al.
1997, Brosius et al. 1998) – yet results remains to be assessed. The question of
conflict resolution is now at the top of many international institutions’ and NGOs’
agendas.
The Penan of Brunei have tended to view the past and future as ‘insignificant
extensions of the ever-changing present’ (Sercombe in this volume), which
appropriately fits with a general lack of interest in history and the past, and a certain
notion of timelessness in nomads’ lives, observed among many Pnan groups (see
Sellato 1994a). However, the increasing occurrence of conflict has led some Pnan
to reconsider the views they hold about their historical traditions and, more
generally, the relevance of history. In Kalimantan, many Pnan groups are now
discovering that they badly need (their own) histories, to support their claims to
rights over their lands, i.e., they must prove that they have been occupying those
lands for an extended period of time. Likewise, such groups that were previously
less concerned with customary law (the local traditional legal system, known as
adat or, more precisely, hukum adat, throughout Borneo among indigenous groups,
and comprising important sets of legally-oriented precedents and edicts), since
many lived under farmers’ adat, now find that they must show that they do have an
adat system of their own, in order to claim that they are ‘traditional people’, and the
allegedly knowledgeable and wise wardens of their forest and resources. Many Pnan
groups have thus set out to formalise, reconstruct, or altogether create ex nihilo the
traditional adat that they now need (e.g., see Sellato 1993b), often with the assistance
of NGOs aiming at helping them secure rights of tenure.
Regarding what is now called ‘traditional environmental knowledge’ (see Ellen
and Harris 1997, Brosius 1997), a kind of paradox appears. While in a biodiversity
assessment with Punan Tubu 330 plant taxa were reported to have known uses
(Puri 1998b), it seems that Pnan groups often actually do collect only a narrow
43
range of wild vegetable foods, and very few medicinal plants (Kaskija in this
volume), in which they have little interest (Brosius in this volume). This apparent
paradox may actually just reflect an undocumented discrepancy between broad
environmental knowledge and restricted current use of plants. Contrasting with
the Punan Tubu, Voeks (in this volume) describes the very narrow range of
ethnobotanical knowledge found among the Penan of Brunei, in comparison to
that of their farming neighbours, a fact that he finds consistent with earlier studies
elsewhere. Voeks interprets this as being a consequence of the restricted nature of
Penan material culture and the lesser impact of diseases in the isolated forests that
they occupy. He also records that this narrow knowledge tends to increase with
sedentarism and contact with farmers (see also Voeks and Sercombe 2000, Fowler
and Turner 1999). Divergent results among Punan Tubu and Penan of Brunei may,
pro parte, be attributed to significant differences in the number of informants and
length of survey (R. Puri, pers. comm.).
It should be noted that, for Pnan, international, foreign, or national NGOs are
simply new outsiders to be taken into account when assessing their own situation;
however, the role of NGOs will not be dealt with at length here. Pnan view such
NGOs as part of their social landscape and gauge them by the profit or support that
can be derived from them. Having remarked that, sometimes, NGOs are competing
locally for indigenous peoples’ attention and participation in their programs, Pnan
have learned to exploit their relationships with these organisations. For Pnan,
NGOs amount to new opportunities for benefits – fresh new goods available from
their ever broadening ‘supermarkets’. In the now classic procuring vs producing
paradigm, Pnan have learned how to expand their opportunities to gain from the
social as well as the natural environment (see Kaskija in this volume). These
opportunities, however, have led to the local emergence of an ‘assistedness’ attitude
among Pnan, whereby no collective action is taken without outside financial
assistance, which paradoxically leads to more dependency (Sellato in this
volume).
Many Pnan are now, more than previously, aware that they are free agents.
They navigate across a modern sea of social networks in the same way as they
formerly navigated in the forest. Often less shy, more self-assertive than previously,
many have begun to set their own priorities and manoeuvre towards achieving new
goals: From among the various partners extending assistance, they select those
whose options fit their goals. A clear example in Kalimantan is the Pnan response
to environmental organisations’ attempts to convince them that protecting local
rainforest amounted to guaranteeing the future resources of the Pnan. Driven by
their immediate-return frame of mind, some Pnan groups declined, and wanted
44
Introduction
their forest logged. Pnan, drawn into the race for forest products, often have actively
participated in exploiting, and damaging, their natural environment – a notable
exception is Sarawak’s Eastern Penan. In fact, while Pnan groups strive to be
granted right of tenure over their lands and resources, few among them really aim
for the long-term, sustainable exploitation of their resources, and many in effect
harvest their resources in the same ruthless and unsustainable way as outsiders,
which appears a rational economic strategy given their circumstances (on this, and
on the myth of the sustainable use of forest resources, see Sellato 2001 and 2005a).
However, having become familiar with what NGOs expect from them, they have
often adopted the ideological universe of their NGO allies (Albert 1997), and
now make full use of their partners’ support potential (Sellato 1999), and this
‘code-switching’ strategy has proved very useful (see Griffin 2002: 44, on Agta
adaptations, in the Philippines). While adoption by Pnan of NGO values is part of
NGOs’ goals, in practice there may be a striking discrepancy between Pnan
discourse and deeds.
In the course of the last two decades, Pnan have needed to look back at their
history and tradition (or a dearth thereof) and look at themselves from the
perspective of a variety of new social agencies with which they now interact. While
they are still, as in the past, looked down upon by farmers and government agencies,
they are no longer necessarily objects of pity, derision, or embarrassment. In fact,
they may even be revered as the recipients and holders of some timeless knowledge
and wisdom, by all sorts of NGOs and, following suit, by the general public. While
notions of the ‘ecologically noble savage’ and of ‘traditional peoples as born
conservationists’ have come under critical scrutiny (see Redford 1991, Ellen and
Harris 1997, Sellato 1999), as well as the neo-romantic myth of the Punan as
‘children of the forest, symbols of a life in harmony with Nature, and guardians
of the forest against evil outsiders’, and the innocent victims of development (see
Sellato in this volume), the nomads’ image in NGO and public eyes constitutes
for Pnan, potentially at least, a considerable economic asset.
Although Pnan are not known for their introspective leanings, the challenges
that they have had to face and the varying responses that these have brought about
have necessarily induced them to look inward in order to try and understand who
they were and the reasons for this change of fortune (see Klimut and Puri in this
volume). Between dependency and acceptance, on the one hand, and hostility
and resistance, on the other, they have come to look upon their own customs and
way of life in a new manner (see, e.g., Winzeler 1997; on nomads’ ‘self- and other-
images’, see Stewart et al. 2002), whereby hitherto implicit cultural patterns have
become objectified or externalised. Such a reification may in part be an effect of
45
world religions and their politicisation – church organisations in Borneo often

constitute forums for ethnocultural self-identification and political and economic
claims – and, in some places, the influence of tourism. This ‘cultural reflexivity’,
in the words of Kaskija, has led to an awareness of their ‘cultural uniqueness’ and
to the invention or revitalisation of ‘traditional’ culture, serving as a means of self-
identification, a political tool, and a commercial asset (Kaskija 2002: 91–93; see
also Kaskija in this volume).
CONCLUDING REMARKS: PNAN FUTURE

Borneo nomads and, mostly, former nomads commonly see themselves as the
most disadvantaged group, ‘stuck at the bottom’ of modern society (see Kaskija in
this volume). It is true that, since settling, one can perceive little overall economic
progress for many Pnan groups, contrary to the professed expectations and claims
of those in power (see Hitchcock and Biesele 2000: 2). Evidence worldwide shows
that many past and present foragers live near or below absolute poverty levels (ibid.:
8). Moreover, the beneficiaries of development in Borneo have been concentrated
in urban areas, while those who perhaps have lost the most are from outlying
areas where their lands and what they contain are that which the politically and
economically powerful have taken over and exploited in the name of national
development (see Dentan et al. 1997: 6–7; also, Salzman 1982).
The Pnan, however, might be in a better situation, overall, than other similar
groups elsewhere. First, contrary to farmers’ folk perceptions, they are undoubtedly
intelligent, and quick learners (Lucy Bulan, pers. comm.; Lucy is the Kelabit
head-teacher of Bareo secondary school, in the interior of Sarawak). Half-settled
Pnan children, to everyone’s astonishment, commonly are top of the class, and
Pnan all over Borneo are known as first-class linguists, often mastering five or
more languages. Then, the basic tenets of their traditional nomadic views and way
of life, which have been maintained unchanged through the dramatic technological,
economic, and political changes of recent decades, allow them to adjust to
changing social and economic situations and take advantage of what comes their
way (on this, more generally, see Kent 1992, Riches 1995). Whereas the Penan of
Brunei and some communities in eastern Sarawak may, indeed, have little
opportunity for progress, many Pnan groups have managed to adapt reasonably
well to changes thrust upon them, when considering the powerful agencies that
they have had to deal with, as the contributions to this volume indicate. Finally,
especially in the Indonesian context, forest-dwelling Pnan are clearly better off
than a huge mass of urban poor (Sellato 2001 and in this volume).
46
Introduction
Outsiders’ images of Borneo Pnan can also work to their advantage. Although
settled, they often continue to be perceived as hunter-gatherers by neighbouring
farming groups, due to resilient remembrance of their past life ways and attitudes
(see Thambiah in this volume), and by the official agencies, due to a common
bureaucratic proclivity to continue to use established labels. Marked as hunter-
gatherers, they can often be seen as repositories of traditional knowledge and
wisdom and may be highly valued by NGOs (and tourists). This apparent
cultural capital can be turned to economic advantage, yet it is fragile one, which
might be easily damaged (see Sellato in this volume).
In the last decade, the terms Penan and Punan have met with renewed interest
as ethnic labels, both in Kalimantan and Sarawak (as did the term Dayak or
Daya’ in Kalimantan some years previously), as a result of action by local and
foreign organisations with a political agenda of collectively promoting indigenous
groups, particularly nomads. Consequently, a large spectrum of people, whether
or not their original autonym was or included Punan or Penan, have agreed to
endorse these exonyms, which may previously have been derogatory terms, as a
means of identification in their fight for political and social recognition (see both
Klimut and Puri and Kaskija in this volume). While Thambiah’s argument (in
this volume) that the Punan category is irrelevant to Bhuket self-identification in
the West Kalimantan context is undoubtedly correct, it nevertheless remains
that Punan and Penan labels (and possibly our ‘Pnan’) are gaining momentum
in the new political arena, where minor ethnocultural specificity is or will be
readily put aside in order to promote broader common agendas.
Prospects for the indigenous people of Borneo, including the Pnan, seem to
vary widely. The Penan of Brunei may be facing a bleak future; however, in
certain instances, in Sarawak and Kalimantan, small but significant progress, in
terms of land and tenure rights (as articulated by Sellato in this volume), appears
encouraging and, thanks to their many allies, the future of the Pnan seems
negotiable, in certain economic areas, if not yet politically.
Cultural survival, however, is another question. Most Pnan do not appear to
desire reservations, where they could carry on with a traditional way of life.
Many, especially among the younger generation, understandably wish to become
consumers, to benefit from the possibilities that the modern world offers (see
Kaskija 1998: 350). In order to take advantage of these possibilities, they would
need to become increasingly involved in mainstream society. Quite how this can
happen remains uncertain.
As developed earlier, ideological features of Pnan societies have played a
crucial part in allowing them to both retain their internal specificity and adjust
47
to changing external circumstances. The Pnan ‘way of life’ is grounded in a very

resilient ‘core’, an ethos, a habitus, the basic tenets of which have been detailed
above. While we do not view Pnan as an essentially distinct category, we believe
that there is an ethos that determines certain patterns of behaviour of peoples
whom we would include as Pnan. Among these are attitudes toward animals, as
either game or pets, and their reluctance to eat the meat of domestic animals
(Seitz in this volume; see also Sellato 1994a, Puri 1997a: 184; more generally, on
the symbolic relation of humans and animals, see Kent 1989). Seitz argues that
animal husbandry strategies can only develop if Pnan undergo a psychosocial
shift in their attitudes toward animals they keep. Another Pnan trait is a unique
expression of melancholic fatalism among the Punan Tubu, mentioned earlier, a
brooding over the hardships of life (see Kaskija 1998: 349, and in this volume).
Without entering into a theoretical debate on this subject, it makes sense
to believe that such features common to groups, which require further
investigation in order to be better understood, may have a major role to play in
their future, as may the outcome of Pnan groups’ own ‘cultural reflexivity’.
In the economic field, Pnan ideological habitus has been found to foster
certain strategies based on individualism, pragmatism, and flexibility. Economic
versatility and immediate-return strategies appear to Pnan as guarantees against
hardship and starving, but also hamper a commitment to full sedentarism and
rice farming. Likewise, attempts to benefit from the modern world involve
adjusting to its current premises, i.e., ‘developing’ along mainstream lines, which
will in turn probably entail, in the long term, abandoning some of the basic
tenets of a hunter-gatherer outlook. Until recently, these mainstream lines
intimated settling down and becoming agriculturalists, which were viewed by
outsiders as development. Even well-meant recent plans, such as making Pnan
‘managers of their own forests’, may be doomed due to Pnan highly resilient
sense of individualism and their tendency towards immediate-return strategies,
as has been frequently demonstrated.
Can Pnan, then, enjoy the material benefits of the modern world and, at the
same time, remain Punan or Penan without their ideological premises being
affected? In the past, many nomadic groups have switched for good to farming
(see Sellato 1994a), to the point of a total loss of the hunting-gathering outlook
and of their Pnan identity – the current situation of the Penan of Brunei is a
fascinating case study of ideological loss in the process. But, in many regions of
Borneo, Pnan are now trying to preserve their cultural traditions, through the
establishment of Pnan associations – of which some bring together a dozen Pnan
groups, and through which some groups for the first time came into contact with
48
Introduction
one another (e.g., East Kalimantan Punan Association) – and the staging of
cultural festivals (e.g., Festival Budaya Punan, held in Malinau in 1994; see
Klimut and Puri, and Kaskija, in this volume; similar festivals were held again in
1998 and 2002). The risk, of course, is that they settle for soulless, ‘folklorised’
versions of their cultures, like many other groups before them (see Sellato
1990b).
‘The year 2000 will have seen the vast majority of former foragers settled and
encapsulated in the administrative structures of one state or another,’ R.B. Lee
and R. Daly wrote (1999: 2). Is there any room left in our world for nomadic
ideologies and life-ways? Will Pnan find an alternative, ‘hunting-gathering’
mode of development, an alternative way to benefit from the modern world and
preserve those Pnan values that, in many cases, they wish to maintain?
49
Chapter 2
PENAN
By Rodney Needham
Abstract: This chapter is a brief, but systematic and comprehensive introduction to

the nomadic and formerly nomadic groups of Borneo, following the frame set by F.M.
LeBar for his indispensable 1972 compendium on the peoples of insular Southeast
Asia.
Synonyms. Pennan, Punan, Poonan (Dutch Poenan, French Pounan)
ORIENTATION
Identification
The Penan are an indigenous people of forest-dwellers in the interior of Borneo.
There has long been confusion in the ethnographic literature about their
identification. For the most part they have been identified as ‘Punan’ and have
thus been aggregated with a number of other people, mostly forest nomads, in
widely separated parts of the island. As late as 1947, the existence of any distinct
Punan people was called into question by an authority who had sought them in
vain in Central Borneo (Cole 1947). Later investigation confirmed the published
indications that there are a number of nomadic people in Borneo, mostly known
as Punan, of whom the Penan forms one group. The Penan refer to themselves as
such (pәnΔn), and distinguish themselves by language and institutions from the
various nomadic Punan groups and from the longhouse Punan Ba (Needham
1954d and 1955). They compose two tribes, Eastern and Western, separated
50
Penan
in the main by the Baram River. Although the tribes recognise each other as
true Penan, i.e., as culturally similar forest nomads, there are marked differences
between them. These linguistic and social disparities are sufficient to justify the
ethnographical separation of the Eastern and Western Penan into two distinct
societies. There are also characteristic physical features which make a further
general difference between the tribes, but the Penan population as a whole is
not racially distinct from the other people from interior Borneo. They exhibit
no Negroid or Veddoid traits. Culturally, they belong to the middle Borneo
grouping of people, distinguished from the Lun Daye (including Muruts) to the
northeast and from the Iban to the southwest. Their cultural affinities are with
the congeries of related people known as Kenyah.
Location
They are located approximately at 2°45´–4°15´ N and 113°25´–115°50´ E. They
are mostly in Sarawak; some are in Kalimantan (Indonesian Borneo), and a few
in Brunei. There is no Penan territory, but the groups are interspersed between
settlements of other people. The Penan have tended to move towards the coast
of the China Sea; one Eastern group and 16 Western groups have settled in the
Baram and Tinjar valleys and in the lowlands between the Kemena and Bakong
rivers. A few Eastern Penan groups have in recent years moved west of the Baram
into the region of the Kalulong massif.
Geography
Primary rainforest, cut by numerous streams and rivers. Stands of wild sago grow
at lower levels and in pockets of soil in the mountains. Fruits include durian,
rambutan, and mangosteen. The chief wild animals of importance are pigs,
monkeys, deer, shrews, snakes, and ant-eaters. Rhinoceros have become practically
extinct within the lifetime of older men. Fish are plentiful, and there are many
species of birds, including the hornbill.
Linguistic Affiliation
Two fairly contrasted dialects, Eastern, and Western, which are not always
mutually intelligible. Eastern is the more homogeneous. The Western Penan
dialect is practically identical with Sebup. Both dialects belong to the Kenyah
family of languages, although both tribes tend to adopt words from the settled
peoples with whom they come into contact, e.g., Kayan, Kelabit, Kenyah,
51
Iban, and Malays. There is no indigenous form of writing, nor can any Penan
leading the traditional life either read or write in any medium. Fronded sticks
(saang) with appendages of leaves, cane, or firewood are thrust into the ground
in order to convey messages about travel, food, numbers, health, and so on
(Arnold 1958).
Demography
There is no exact census of the Penan, but in 1952 they were numbered at 2,626,
divided as follows: Eastern Penan, 906; Western Penan, 852; settled groups, 868.
The total population is probably less than 3,000, divided into about 70 groups
(Needham 1953). There are indications that the Penan have been constantly
increasing in numbers and that they continue to do so.
History
Culturally the Penan form part of the general movement of peoples from the
upper Kayan River, over the central chain of mountains, and down the Baram
and Tinjar valleys towards the coast. The Western Penan have a tradition that
they originated from Bateu Kéng Sian (‘Turtle-shell Rock’) in the upper reaches
of the Lua River, a tributary of the Peliran, in the headwaters of the Rejang.
Genealogies extend back to about 1810, and the subsequent moves and fissions
of groups between the Balui to the west and the Ivan, Pejungan, and Luda rivers
to the east, can be plotted by reference to these. The Eastern Penan do not
share this tradition, and their genealogies are far shallower. They have much less
knowledge of their past, but they appear to have come from the Pejungan and
through the Lio Matu area, at the headwaters of the Baram, and thence north-
westward through the mountains that form the right watershed of this river.
They have expanded in that direction as far as the Medalam, a major tributary
of the Limbang River, and into the interior of the Brunei state. Politically, the
bulk of the Penan fall under the government of Sarawak. There has long been
a trend to abandon nomadism and to practise agriculture in fixed settlements.
This has latterly been intensified at the urging of colonial administrators. The
oldest Penan settlements in Sarawak – those on the Niah, Suai, and Buk rivers
– date probably from the first two decades of the nineteenth century. There
are indications that assimilation to the settled people is taking place at an
increasingly rapid rate, and it is probable that the Penan will eventually vanish
as a distinct group of people.
52
Penan
Cultural Relations
Penan of both tribes, but the Western more than the Eastern, are influenced by
the longhouse peoples in language, dress, tattooing, and in many of their ideas.
Each nomadic group is under the dominance of the headman of a longhouse,
and individual families are in turn subject to upper-class members of these
settled tribes. The latter express great contempt for the Penan, refer to them as
animals, and claim them as their property. The Penan are timid and abashed
in their presence. They need to trade with the settled people, however, in order
to remain nomads, and the goods they bring in are a source of much profit to
their patrons. Before firm government was established, the Penan were under
protection, secured by blood pact, of the patrons, who jealously guarded their
own economic rights in Penan trade against headhunting or intrusion on the
part of other longhouse groups (Pauwels 1935: 351–352). The only reported form
of incursion into Penan society is when an Iban battens on a group, sometimes
taking one of the women, in order to acquire very cheaply a store of bezoar
stones and mats. Individual Kenyah sometimes journey into the forest to trade
with Penan, outside the regular meetings and free of the government price levels
maintained at them, but they do not stay.
SETTLEMENT PATTERN AND HOUSING

Settlement Pattern
Local groups range in size from 15 to 75 persons, with a mean of about 32.
They are named after the rivers with which they are associated historically or
culturally, e.g., Penan Akah, Penan Silat. The Eastern Penan build a main camp
in the territory that they exploit, and then move as a group from one temporary
camp to another, using the main camp as a base and for the storage of forest
products until it is time to move to another area or to go to a trading meeting.
The Western Penan live in a main camp for up to two years and exploit the
area in smaller groups of a family or two, while the old and sick and certain
others stay behind. In each tribe, the main camp consists of dwellings; there is
no temple or bachelors’ house. The disposition of the huts follows no special or
symbolic form, but there are distinctions between Eastern and Western main
camps. The Eastern Penan build in a close cluster, high on a ridge, but within
ready reach of water. The Western Penan build on level ground near a river,
often in a line, and sometimes with the huts placed end-to-end in the form of a
longhouse.
53
Housing
The huts are made of saplings, with roofs consisting of mat-like stretches of
dried fan-palm leaves sewn together; these are sometimes supplemented by
green leaves of the same kind, and the sides may be partly closed against rain
and wind with leaves or bark. The Eastern hut is built some feet off the ground
on piles; among the Western Penan it is based directly on the ground, with only
a few inches between the sapling floor and the soil. There is no completely
standard arrangement of the interior in either; e.g., the hearth (made of earth
with stones to support the pan) can be at any point. Generally there are no
partitions inside a hut, and when among the Western Penan a number of huts
are built in line, they afford a clear view right through. There are no movable
furnishings.
ECONOMY
Traditionally, and still for the most part in fact, the Penan are hunters and gatherers.
A few groups grow small and precarious supplementary crops of cassava. The
settled groups plant dry rice. The staple food for the forest dwellers is the wild
sago palm, exploited throughout the year. The most prized game animal is the
wild pig; the most common prey is monkey – primarily gibbons and macaques
– but practically any creature (with the exception of omen animals and leeches)
may be hunted and eaten. All food, from sago flour to the smallest bird, is shared
with scrupulous equality among all members of the group. Game is hunted with
blowpipe and spear; the darts are poisoned, but not the spear. In recent years, an
increasing number of individuals have acquired shotguns; ammunition is obtained
at the trading meetings. Among the Western Penan, fish are caught by hook
and line or by dam and [poisonous] Derris root. Fruits are abundant in season,
and animals are fatter at this time. The only domestic animal is the hunting dog,
often acquired from the settled tribes. The Western Penan make blowpipes with
an iron bit, and they are skilled smiths. Today the iron comes in foundry-produced
bars through trade, but these Penan claim that they have always known, like the
Kenyah (Arnold 1959: 124), how to smelt ore and how to work it with stone
hammers and anvils (see Pfeffer 1963: 129). They also carve excellent sheathes
and hilts. The Eastern Penan do not have these skills, and protest that they are
unable to acquire them, so that they rely more directly on trade. Both tribes
weave cane mats which fetch good prices (for the middlemen) in the lowland
54
Penan
markets. Baskets, mats, roofing, bamboo containers, and domestic utensils are
all made by the Penan from local materials. There is no distinct status of artist
or craftsman.
TRADE
Trading meetings are held about three times a year with Kenyah and other
overlords at their longhouses on the rivers. In recent decades, they have for the
most part been conducted under government supervision, which checks the more
extreme forms of cheating. The Penan bring in cane mats and unworked forest
products such as damar, wild rubber and bezoars, hornbill feathers, anteater
scales, and, formerly, rhinoceros horns. They exchange these, on disadvantageous
terms, for spearheads, cutting implements, cooking pans, beads, earrings,
bracelets, loincloths, skirts, matches, etc. There are no Penan markets, nor is
there any other form of regular internal trade among Penan groups. There is
much gift exchange, but goods earned by trade are not subject to the rule of
equal sharing.
Property
There are no rights in land or in its resources, except that bezoar stones, hornbill
feathers, etc., belong to the hunter and that damar and wild rubber belong to
those who collected or worked it. The return on these forest products, in the
form of what Penan call ‘hard’ goods acquired by trade, is individually owned.
There are stated punishments for theft, but no actual cases are known. Huts
are built by the families who sleep in them, but they are not negotiable property.
The group has no bounded territory of its own, and for another group to hunt in
the neighbourhood would not be a trespass.
KIN GROUPS
Descent
Kinship is reckoned cognatically, with a patrilineal emphasis; an individual
takes the father’s name, and in a genealogy masculine connections tend to be
remembered more readily than feminine.
55
Kin Groups
There are no discrete groups defined by descent. The local group usually consists
of close relatives. All Penan are regarded as kin, whether or not genealogical
connections can be established.
Kin Terminology
The terminology is non-lineal and is applied in a widely classificatory fashion.
There are slight differences between the Eastern and Western terminologies.
Eastern Western
tepun tepun grandparent
tamen tamen father
tinen tinen mother
vé vi uncle, aunt
padé padi sibling
[padé] tuken [padi] tuken elder sibling
[padé] tadin [padi] tadin younger sibling
padé pata padi pesak cousin
anak anak child
ahong aong nephew, niece
ayam ayam grandchild
kivan kivan parent-in-law, child-in-law
banen banen husband
do redu wife
sabai sabai brother-in-law
lango langu sister-in-law
ruai ruai spouse of sibling-in-law
lieng bieng sibling-in-law after death of connecting spouse
Teknonyms are employed, and also a system of ‘death-names’ which are

prefixed to the personal names of those who have lost relatives by death (Needham
1954a, 1954d, 1959, 1965).
MARRIAGE AND FAMILY

Mode
Ideally there is a bridewealth, higher among the Western Penan than among the
Eastern, consisting of swords, blowpipes, clothes, etc., but in practice, little if
56
Penan
anything is ever given when the marriage takes place within the group. There is
no ceremony, nor is any official or group consent ever required.
Form
Preponderantly monogamous, but not obligatorily so. There is no preference for
sororal polygyny or for polygyny itself. Polyandry has been alleged (Hose and
McDougall 1912, II: 183), but is said by the Penan to be impossible.
Marriage Prohibitions
Penan of either tribe may in general marry a person of any category, other than
tamen, tinen, and current kivan, provided the relationship is at the second degree.
An exception, and a difference between the two tribes, affects the cousin. The Eastern
Penan may marry the first cousin and frequently do so; the Western may not. There is
no prescribed or preferred category. Marriage often takes place between genealogical
levels, e.g., between vé and ahong; usually it takes place between individuals of roughly
the same age, and this factor overrides category. Marriage between individuals
of disparate age is much disapproved and does not occur (Needham 1966).
Residence
Marriage usually and by preference takes place within the group. When the parties
belong to different groups, the man should remain within his wife’s group for a year
or so, or until a child has been born, but the decision depends in each case on the
particular circumstances and it may not be practicable to fulfil this expectation.
Domestic Unit
Nuclear family – rarely, polygynous family – with the addition of dependants
such as widowed parent, visitor, etc.
Inheritance
There are no fixed rules, and there is little property to inherit that an individual
will not already possess. Siblings and children have first claims, which they adjust
among themselves according to need.
Divorce
By mutual consent, or at the instance of either party, without ceremony or
any authorisation. Causes include adultery, idleness, and bad temper, but not
barrenness.
57
Secondary Marriage
There is no widow-inheritance, levirate or sororate.
Adoption
Possible but not common. There are no prescribed categories. An orphan may be
adopted by either a brother or a sister of the deceased parent. A childless woman
may beg a baby from another woman who already has a large family; the promise
can be made before the child in question is born.
SOCIOPOLITICAL ORGANISATION
Political Organisation
The group is usually headed by a recognised elder, but he has no real power. The
office is not in principle hereditary, but it is frequently transmitted from father to
son. There is no council or any other form of organisation of the group, nor are
there any institutions transcending the level of the community.
Social Stratification
There are no social classes, though certain Western groups speak in terms
(copied apparently from longhouse tribes) of aristocrats, maren, and commoners,
panyin, in describing the difference between elders and others. There are not,
and never have been, any slaves (ripen) among the Penan. Relative age is the
most general and the most important social differential, but there are no age
sets or recognised age-grades. There is no formal training and no initiation into
manhood. Among the Western Penan, and perhaps less commonly among the
Eastern Penan, a youth will assume the penis pin when he begins to lead an
active sexual life; this involves perforating the glans penis and is done either by
the youth himself or with the help of a friend. The shaft of the pin is thrust
through the holes when it is healed, and the apparatus is worn in intercourse to
increase the stimulation of the girl. Tattooing is not a general practice. Western
Penan sometimes adopt simple designs on the shoulders and the throat, such as
worn by the Iban; the Eastern Penan do not usually tattoo at all. The lobes of the
ears are punctured for earrings, and a hunter who has killed a clouded leopard
wears the fangs in holes bored in the helices of the ears, but these are not signs of
stages in initiation. None of these tokens of maturity involves ritual or any kind
of collective participation.
58
Penan
Social Control and Justice

There is no formal control of a Penan group, nor is any individual who has
an alternative obliged to stay with it. In matters of communal concern, the
general will of the mature men, backed by the women, prevails. Forms of ordeal,
divination, oaths, and conditional curses are referred to in connection with the
resolution of disputes, but they are practically never put into effect.
Warfare
The Penan claim that they have never initiated attacks on others, and not even
their longhouse neighbours report it of them. They themselves have until recently
been prime targets for headhunters, of whom they are still in dread. There is no
cannibalism. Contemporary Penan, especially the Eastern tribe, are remarkable
for their pacific character and their abhorrence of physical violence.
RELIGION
Christianity has spread among the Penan since the end of the Second World War,
evangelical Protestantism among the Eastern Penan and Roman Catholicism
among the Western, but a large proportion of the groups, both nomadic and
settled, remain pagan. The longest settled groups in the coastal lowlands are
Muslim. The major characteristics of the indigenous religion of the Penan are
in general, and in a somewhat impoverished form, those of the Kenyah religion
as described by Elshout (1923 and 1926). There is neither totemism nor an
ancestor cult. Shamanism, in a form common in central Borneo, is practised.
Omen creatures (deer, snakes, and a number of birds) are recognised, as among
the Kenyah.
Supernaturals
There is a supreme creator-divinity, Peselong, sometimes credited with a wife,
Bungan. He has little concern for human affairs, and these are most influenced
by innumerable spirits (balé); some of these are malevolent, but most of them
animate the environment and account for noteworthy things and events.
Practitioners
Shamans (dayung) cure illness by summoning their spirit familiars and by
chanting against the spirits who are responsible. There are no priests.
59
Ceremonies
There are no major religious ceremonies, and there is no religious calendar.
Blood taken from the petitioner’s foot is sacrificed to a thunder god, Baléi Liwen,
to avert storms brought on by mockery of animals (Needham 1964). Chicken
feathers offered in cleft fronded sticks serve as surrogates for real victims in
expiation of wrongdoing, such as adultery. Human hair is also offered in this way
after a funeral.
Illness and Medicine

Disease is caused by specific classes of spirits, bringing fever, bellyache, etc.
These are mollified by the shaman. Headaches, as well as the unease consequent
upon bad dreams, can be relieved by making a fronded stick with a rudimentary
human face (butun); the pain, or the inauspiciousness, is transferred to this stick,
which is left in the forest, sometimes near a stream which will carry the influence
away. There are very few indigenous medicines. Certain leaves may be chewed or
macerated and placed over a cut, but in general wounds and boils are allowed to
suppurate. The usual remedy for sickness is to sit by the fire. Penan of both tribes
readily accept Western medicines.
Soul, Death and Afterlife

Among the Eastern Penan, the individual possesses three souls (sahé), associated
with the pupils of the eyes, the hair of the head, and the trunk of the body. The
Western Penan speak of only one soul (beruwen). After death, souls go to the
land of the spirits above the sky, where they lead a life like that on earth, only
with easeful abundance and no pain or illness. The body is buried, either under
the hut in which the death occurred or in the forest; in either case the camp is
abandoned and the group moves a few miles away and does not return for some
months.
EDITORS’ NOTE
This text previously appeared in 1972 with the same title in F. M. LeBar (ed.), Ethnic
groups of insular Southeast Asia, vol. 1, New Haven: Human Relations Area Files Press,
pp. 176–180. (Reprinted by kind permission of Human Relations Area Files
Press.) The author carried out field research in Borneo in 1951–1952 and again
in 1958.
60
Chapter 3
RESOURCEFUL CHILDREN OF THE

FOREST: THE KALIMANTAN PUNAN
THROUGH THE TWENTIETH CENTURY
By Bernard Sellato
Abstract: This chapter describes the present situation of the Punan of Kalimantan,
which strongly contrasts with that of the Penan of Sarawak, such as it has been
popularised by general-audience media and non-governmental organisations, and
with their positions in the pre-colonial regional social fabric of this part of Borneo. In
the twentieth century, many groups of hunter-gatherers here have gained ground in
visibility and land acreage, and economic advantages, through their demands for the
recognition of their traditional rights over the lands they occupy.
INTRODUCTION
Current and (mostly) former forest hunter-gatherers of Kalimantan, usually
called Punan (rather than Penan, as in Sarawak; other local ethnonyms are also
used), have been gaining ground, in both visibility of land acreage, as well as
important economic advantages, through their demands, often by proxy, for
the recognition of their traditional rights over the lands they occupy. Indeed,
they have come to occupy incredibly vast expanses of interior territories, to be
recognised by the Administration as the de jure holders of those territories and,
increasingly by the day, to be acknowledged as their rightful, exclusive users and
managers.
61
The purpose of this study is to expose the actual situation of Kalimantan

Punan – which is quite different from that of Sarawak Penan, such as it has been
popularised by general-audience printed and audiovisual media and environmental
and advocacy non-governmental organisations. Although I do not claim that this
situation has contributed much to improve the Punan’s true social and economic
welfare, it stresses that they, in Kalimantan at least, are generally not, and by far,
the poor, helpless wretches that they are often portrayed as or that they themselves
want to be viewed as. It does not profess to offer new, ready-made solutions to
their current problems; rather, it proposes to look at these problems in a different
light.
This study is based on a number of periods of fieldwork, in the Upper
Mahakam, Tabang (Mahakam), Upper Kapuas, Upper Busang and Upper
Murung (Barito), Malinau, Apo Kayan, and Pujungan (all three in Bulungan),
between 1974 and 2001. It also builds upon a published corpus of my earlier
work on the subject of Punan, to which the reader is referred, but which is only
briefly summarised in passing where it seemed relevant. Figures, although
often of potentially dubious accuracy, are mainly derived from government
reports.
My starting point is, as implied above, the striking fact that tiny Punan
communities occupy and, at least de jure, control huge tracts of forested
hinterland, the wealth of which in terms of natural resources makes them a
prime target for a variety of often predatory outside parties.
PUNAN AND LAND: THE SITUATION TODAY

I shall first consider the current situation of several clusters of formerly nomadic
groups in the interior of Kalimantan with regard to the lands they officially
occupy. The reader may wish to skip lengthy and tedious descriptions and go
straight to the final sub-section of this section.
The Indonesian administration recognises the smallest administrative unit,
the desa or village (entities beneath the level of the desa, the dusun and the
Rukun Tetangga, or RT, have but little relevance to my argument). Each desa has
an exclusive territory, wilayah desa, the boundaries of which are set by the
government, albeit very roughly in the case of unmapped interior regions.
In principle, the people of a given desa farm, hunt, fish, and collect within their
wilayah desa, but this is not necessarily true everywhere, and particularly in the
case of Punan. In any event, however, a desa has official jurisdiction over its
wilayah desa.
62
Resourceful Children of the Forest
I shall consider here the three most important clusters of Punan communities
(in terms of numbers of people) in the interior of Kalimantan (see Map 3.1): (A)
the cluster of the upper Malinau and upper Tubu (or Tubu’, Tubo’, etc.) rivers,
Malinau District, Bulungan Regency, East Kalimantan (see Map 3.2); (B) the
cluster located in Kayan Hulu and Kayan Hilir districts of Bulungan Regency,
Tabang District of Kutai Regency, and Segah and Kelai districts of Berau
Regency, East Kalimantan (see Map 3.3); and (C) the cluster of the uppermost
Kapuas River, Putussibau District, Kapuas Hulu Regency, West Kalimantan,
and adjacent river basins across the Müller Mountains in Central and East
Kalimantan (see Map 3.4). It should be noted that here I am using the
administrative divisions prior to the last years of the twentieth century, when the
boundaries of some districts were altered and new regencies were created.
Map 3.1. Location of Three Clusters Studied

63
A note of warning is necessary here. Available maps, including recent

government maps (e.g., Peta Indeks 1994), although computer generated, are
unreliable, especially for interior regions of East and Central Kalimantan (but
good maps of West Kalimantan were drawn during the colonial period). Map
scales appear whimsical; regency and district boundaries are approximately
correct, but provincial boundaries remain irreconcilable; and limits of wilayah
desa were obviously drawn straight across rivers and mountains with no concern
whatsoever for actual relevant geographic features; also, surfaces of districts (e.g.,
Ikhtisar Statistik 1998) are very rough approximations, and surfaces of wilayah
desa (e.g., Data Jumlah 1995) are sometimes simply random. I relied mainly on
my own maps, and only on a spot basis on government cartographic documents,
whenever they appeared consistent with reality.
Malinau–Tubu
This area used to be home to the largest single cluster of Punan in Kalimantan
and, possibly, in the whole of Borneo. These people refer to themselves as
Punan Tubu and Punan Malinau and now tend to consider themselves a single
ethnocultural entity, although this is probably derived from the conglomeration
of several earlier groups of diverse origins although this is beyond the scope of
the present study (see Sellato 2001, Kaskija 2002; also, Kaskija and Klimut and
Puri, in this volume). A notable proportion of the Punan communities living
in this area has now moved out to large resettlement villages downriver (see
Kaskija 1998, 2002). By about 1960, prior to downstream migration and later
resettlement, there were probably over 3,000 Punan in the Tubu drainage and
the upper Malinau area. Today, there may be between 3,500 and 4,000 Punan
distributed in Malinau and Mentarang districts (see Map 3.2).
As of the closing decade of the twentieth century, there remained five desa in
the upper Malinau (Halanga, Punan Mirau, Metut, Long Lake’, and Long Jalan)
and five more in the upper Tubu (Rian Tubu, Long Titi, Long Pada, Long Nyau,
and Long Ranau; see Kaskija 2002), inhabited almost exclusively by Punan.
Those are the official desa, acknowledged by the government. In practice, the
Punan communities may live elsewhere in the vicinity. Again, in practice,
although Punan communities having relocated downriver no longer hold official
rights over their former territories – formal jurisdiction over land now lies solely
with the upriver desa – they still retain customary (adat) rights of use over land
and resources and, often, spend more time there, collecting forest products, than
they do in their resettlement village.
64
Map 3.2. The Malinau River Area
Altogether, the current official upstream Punan population amounts to 1,124

people – 688 in the upper Malinau and 436 in the upper Tubu (Kaskija 2002)
– an average of hardly over 100 people per desa. This represents about five per
cent of the whole population of Malinau District (almost 20,000 in 1997; see
Ikhtisar Statistik 1998).
The land areas, as described in government reports, of the wilayah of those
ten desa, are quite inaccurate. In remote interior regions, they never were properly
measured or calculated, and often were never even visited by government agents.
Although even recent editions of maps (e.g., Peta Indeks 1994) are unreliable in
this matter, an idea of the size of Punan wilayah desa can be obtained, against a
better cartographic background, to at least figure out their total in terms of a
percentage of the district’s surface. If the figure of 5,238 sq. km for the whole
of Malinau District is correct (Ikhtisar Statistik 1998) – and it does seem
about correct – then Punan wilayah desa in the upper Malinau and upper
Tubu drainages would amount to a total of about 40 per cent, that is, some
2,000 sq. km (see Map 3.2).
65
This means that five per cent of the district’s population occupy 40 per cent
of its territory. Population density in Punan areas is just above 0.5 person per sq.
km, in contrast to a figure of almost six for the rest of the district, or an average
of about four for the district as a whole.
If we exclude the urban section of the district’s population (Malinau Kota, now
probably around 5,000 and other, smaller centres), the Punan represent less than ten
per cent of the rural population. The average wilayah of a Punan desa in the upper
Malinau and upper Tubu areas amounts to over 200 sq. km. Excluding, again, the
urban population, the remaining 50-odd rural desa of Malinau District each control
a wilayah of an average 50 sq. km for a population of over 200 per desa.
To the northeast of this ‘Punan’ area, along the eastern boundary of Malinau
District, the case of the Punan of Gong Solok and Bengalun only confirms, on a
smaller scale, the picture above: less than 300 souls occupy another five per cent
of the district’s area (Peta Indeks 1994 and Ikhtisar Statistik 1998).
Across the district boundaries, smaller Punan territories are found in Long
Pujungan District (Punan Benalui of desa Long Lame), Long Peso District
(Punan Bahau, part of desa Long Telenjau, Naha Aya’, and Long Lasan;
see Sellato 2001), and Kerayan District (Punan Tubu of desa Pa Ibang). In
Tanjung Palas District, several villages of Punan (known as Punan Sekatak;
see Appell 1983) are found across the boundary from those of Gong Solok and
Bengalun.
Kayan–Tabang–Segah–Kelai
This area (see Map 3.3) includes the headwaters of the Kayan I’ut (or Kayan
’Ok), a major tributary of the main Kayan River (Bulungan Regency), of the
Belayan (or Tabang) and Boh rivers, both major tributaries of the Mahakam
(Kutai Regency), and of the Segah and Kelai, the two branches of the Berau
River (Berau Regency). This mountainous massif, with several peaks above
2,000 m, is actually inhabited by two distinct Punan clusters, the Punan Kelai
in the east and, in the west, a set of groups ultimately originating from western
Borneo.
In Kayan Hilir District, the Punan Haput, a group related to the Western
Penan of Sarawak, live in two settlements, Long Metun (known as Long
Metun II) and Long Pipa (or Long Kipa), on the Kayan I’ut River. As of 1995,
these two settlements totalled less than 600 people – of which a substantial
part comprised outsiders who came to reside there to collect forest products.
Their combined wilayah desa amounts to some 30 per cent of the total district’s
surface of about 13,000 sq. km, i.e., about 4,000 sq. km. As a whole, however,
66
Map 3.3. The Kayan-Tabang-Segah-Kelai Area
Kayan Hilir District, due to massive out-migration, is now very thinly

populated (about 1,400 souls; Data Jumlah 1995), with a density of 0.1 persons
per sq. km.
In Kayan Hulu District, one Punan village, Long Top, formerly on the Uhu’
(or Oho’) River, is now located on the Boh River, a tributary of the Mahakam.
These Punan are Lisum who came from Sarawak in the nineteenth century to
seek the protection of the Kenyah of Apo Kayan against headhunting Iban. The
wilayah of desa Long Top comprises about 20 per cent (about 1,200 sq. km) of
the whole area of the district (5,800 sq. km).
The population of Long Top, however, is only 73 (Data Jumlah 1995), an
extremely low number, whereas the district, although it has lost a substantial
part of its population to out-migration since the 1960s, still retains over 5,000
people in the remaining 80 per cent of its area, with a density of over one person
per sq. km.
67
In Tabang District, on the upper Belayan River, five Punan desa occupy over
60 per cent of the total surface of the district, that is, over 4,000 sq. km of a total
7,150 sq. km. In the early 1990s, the combined population of the five Punan desa
reached less than 600 (Data Jumlah 1995). These Punan are Lisum and Beketan,
who have come from western Borneo, in several groups and by several different
routes, in the course of the last 150 years. (In 2001, their population had soared
to about 1,000 persons, of whom more than 25 per cent were non-Punan transient
residents involved in the trade of edible birds’ nests.)
It should be noted that these people, although they have been the object of several
official resettlement programs since the 1960s, have to date not totally resettled
(Sellato 2002b). A proportion of them live in the compound village of Sungai Lunuk,
near Kota Tabang, but many have returned to their old lands. In any event, their
traditional wilayah desa appear to have been officially preserved as such.
Thus, with 600 persons ‘occupying’ 4,000 sq. km, the virtual population
density is less than 0.2 per sq. km. Meanwhile, for the remaining 12 desa of
Tabang District, totalling almost 10,000 persons, the density reaches over three
persons per sq. km.
To the southwest, in the eastern corner of Long Bagun District, the Punan
Merah hamlet of Long Merah (comprising about 100 Lisum) still occupies a
good part of the Merah river drainage area. Long Merah, once a Punan desa, has
now, for all practical purposes, become a Kenyah desa.
In Berau Regency, two districts, Kelay and Segah, are home to a number of
Punan settlements. In Kelay District, six Punan settlements (L. Kaskija, pers.
comm. 1993) collectively comprise about 800 people, or about one-third of the
district’s population (2,440), occupying over 60 per cent, or 3,500 sq. km, of the
district’s total area of 5,900 sq. km (Peta Indeks 1994, Data Jumlah 1995).
Segah District shows a less extreme situation, with three or four Punan settlements,
totalling around 600 people, or 25 per cent of the district population (2,500),
occupying 40 per cent, or 2,000 sq. km, of the district’s total area of 5,100 sq. km
(ibid.). Adjacent to Segah District, the south-western tip of Long Peso District, in
Bulungan Regency, has one Punan village, Long Yiin (also known as Long Pelaah),
with an extensive wilayah desa and only about 100 inhabitants.
There is, therefore, a large cluster of Punan settlements, distributed through six
districts in three regencies. This Punan territory also encompasses the north-
western part of Muara Wahau District and the northern tip of Muara Ancalong
District, both in Kutai Regency. It covers a total area of over 15,000 sq. km, all of
it heavily forested, with a total population of certainly less than 3,000 (and an
overall population density of 0.2 per sq. km).
68
Upper Kapuas and Müller Mountains

In West Kalimantan, the Putussibau District of Kapuas Hulu Regency is
home to two main groups of former nomads, the Bukat (see Thambiah in
this volume) and the Punan, the latter including the Hovongan (or Punan
Bungan; see Ngo in this volume) of the Bungan River and the Kereho
(or Punan Keriau) of the Keriau River (see Map 3.4). The combined relocation
of remote hamlets and alteration of administrative divisions in the 1980s
led to a situation whereby only two desa now remain (Registrasi 1994):
Bungan Jaya, comprising three dusun (Nanga Lapung, Bungan, and
Tanjung Lokang), totalling 650 persons, mostly Hovongan; and Beringin
Jaya, comprising dusun Sepan Satu (Kereho, 151 persons), dusun Metelunai
Map 3.4. The Upper Kapuas River Area
69
(Bukat, 173 persons), and dusun Nanga Balang (mixed, 275 persons). Another
Bukat group formerly had its own desa, Nanga Hovat (or Obat), on the upper
Mendalam River. It has now become a dusun (of 264 persons), part of the
Kayan desa of Datah Dian, and those vast traditional Bukat territories have
come under Kayan jurisdiction. (Regarding this area, see also Sellato 1986,
1989, 1994a, 1995a.)
According to official documents, Putussibau District covers approximately
9,500 sq. km and had in 1992 a total population of 23,500 (Registrasi 1994), thus
a density of 2.5 people per sq. km. The wilayah of desa Bungan Jaya and Beringin
Jaya, not including the territories occupied by the Bukat of dusun Nanga Hovat,
amount to over 60 per cent of the district’s area, or about 6,000 sq. km.
Considering a total ‘Punan’ population of about 1,500, this area is thus controlled
by slightly over five per cent of the district’s population (with a density, in ‘Punan’
territory, of 0.25 persons per sq. km).
In adjacent Central Kalimantan, to the southeast, another Kereho group, the
Kereho Busang, occupies the upper half of the Busang River (Sumber Barito
District of Barito Utara Regency). As of the year 1980, about 300 Kereho lived
on the Busang (Sellato 1994a). In the course of time, however, they mixed with
their downstream neighbours, the Ot Danum, and their separate desa became
integrated into larger, mainly Ot Danum desa, with the exception of desa
Tumbang Jojang, predominantly Kereho, which controls the headwaters of the
Busang River, a region of about 1,000 sq. km.
In the upper Mahakam area, to the east, the Long Apari District of Kutai
Regency includes one Bukat village, Noha Tivap (with a population of less than
200). In earlier times, these Bukat lived upstream from the last Aoheng settlement
and controlled the headwaters of the Mahakam (Sellato 1980, 1986, 1994a).
In the course of the twentieth century, however, they were relocated downstream
and the broad territories of the headwaters became part of the wilayah of the
Aoheng desa of Long Apari. Noha Tivap, although it has remained a separate
desa, now has a tiny wilayah.
Altogether, the groups of former nomads of the Müller Mountains, now
amounting to a total population of about 2,000 or less, still occupy some 7,000
sq. km of forested mountainous territories, which, moreover, are rich in gold,
birds’ nests, and various other forest products.
The Overall Picture

Altogether, with 1,100 Punan scattered across 2,000 sq. km in Malinau District,
3,000 Punan on 15,000 sq. km in the Apokayan–Tabang–Segah–Kelai region,
70
and 2,000 Punan on 7,000 sq. km in the Müller Mountains area, it appears
that some 6,000 persons are in a position of formal jurisdiction over territories
(their official wilayah desa) amounting to almost 25,000 sq. km, all or most of it
forested uplands holding much sought-after trade products.
The average population density of 0.25 per sq. km (with a range from 0.1 to
0.5) seems consistent throughout the regions under scrutiny.
The three cases put forth above are the most prominent, but not the only
ones. One could cite the Punan group controlling the upper Murung River
(Sumber Barito District, Barito Utara Regency, Central Kalimantan) and a good
part of the Ratah River (Long Iram District, Kutai Regency, East Kalimantan;
about this Murung-Ratah group, see Sellato 1986); or, less noteworthy, the
group, mentioned above, controlling the upper Sekatak river drainage and
adjacent streams in Tanjung Palas District (see Appell 1983).
Those 25,000 sq. km computed above account for five per cent of the total
area of Kalimantan (see Map 3.1), the population of which reached almost
11 million according to the 2000 census. By this standard, those Punan
communities that have chosen to remain upriver rather than relocate downstream
are (officially, though often only virtually) the biggest landlords in Kalimantan.
Phrased in this way, this may sound quite striking, or even provocative, but,
in itself, the situation is not new and thus should not surprise one, for the fact
that, to the extent of my knowledge, quantitative data had never before been
computed, other than in very crude terms (see Sellato 1994a), nor had the issue
been described in terms of the Punan’s official jurisdiction over their lands.
I shall now investigate the historical processes – involving both traditional,
pre-colonial social and political patterns and colonial and post-colonial
administrative choices – that have led to the current situation. We will first
review the question of ethnicity, then that of territoriality.
PUNAN, FARMERS, AND ETHNICITY

By the turn of the twentieth century, the Dutch finally penetrated the mountain
ranges of the remote hinterland of Kalimantan and came into contact with the
most isolated nomadic groups (see, e.g., Molengraaff 1902, Nieuwenhuis 1900,
Stolk 1907, Van Walchren 1907).
The data collected by the Dutch, as well as reconstructions derived from
oral histories collected among nomads and former nomads (e.g., Sellato 1986,
1994a, 2001, Kaskija 1998, 2002), allow us to form an idea of the pre-twentieth-
century regional social fabric and how nomadic groups fit into it.
71
In the course of time, nomadic groups developed trade relationships with

neighbouring non-nomadic groups, based on barter of commercial forest
products, which the coastal markets demanded (Sellato 1994a, 2005a). Trade
relationships, in time, led to certain patterns of client–patron or vassal–overlord
bonds and to economic and political subordination (Sellato 1994a: 164 et sq.) –
and even, locally, deep subservience bordering on slavery – of nomadic groups to
their neighbours. Such situations began prevailing as early as trade relationships
intensified between given nomadic and settled partners, and continued into the
colonial period.
The fact that some remote nomadic groups, according to their own historical
traditions, remained without iron, salt, or dogs till some time in the nineteenth
century attests that trade networks reached them much later than they did other,
more accessible groups. Patterns of farmer–nomad relationships thus show a
gradation, based on the intensity of trade and proximity from coastal trade ports.
This gradation is a function of both distance and time. Here, of course, the
island’s geography and morphology play a prominent role, from coastal regions
to remote water divides, along the axes of major rivers. This continuum of
patterns has been broken down into three categories as described below.
In relatively easily accessible coastal and lower-river regions, petty states
controlled trade at the mouths of rivers (see Healey 1985, Rousseau 1989, Hall
1995). Groups of ‘nomads’ here were totally subordinated to a coastal ruler. For
a substantial part, they were likely to have been slaves imported through the
inter-island trade networks (Warren 1981, Needham 1983, Sellato 2001), whom
the ruler had acquired to work on his lands. This was probably the case, among
others, of the Punan Batu in Berau, some Basap along the northern east coast
and on the lower Mahakam, and part of the Punan Bengalun. A major reason for
the use of slave or enslaved labour in these coastal areas was to expedite more
easily the exploitation of birds’ nest caves (Sellato 2001 and 2005b).
A similar situation pertained to lower- and middle-river regions, where
farming tribal groups had ‘their’ Punan, strictly affiliated – albeit not enslaved
– nomadic groups, which were used, as in the case of the coastal kingdoms, to
exploit birds’ nest caves, as well as other commercial forest resources, for their
patrons’ benefit. (The farming chieftains also imported slave labour, which the
coastal rulers pushed on them in order to boost production and, therefore,
increase trade revenue.) This was the case of the Punan Ga’ai, under the control
of the Ga’ai in the lower Kayan; the Punan Bahau, under the control of ‘Kayan’
groups (see above), also in the lower Kayan; the Punan Sekatak, under the control
of the Berusu’ in the Sekatak River; the Punan Ratah, under the control of the
72
Bahau in the middle Mahakam (Sellato 1986); and, possibly, some of the Punan
Malinau, under the control of the Merap in the Malinau River.
Further inland, along the upper reaches of a major river, nomadic groups were
under permanent control of a locally prominent farming group, but as ‘allies’ or
partners rather than dependent labour. Farming chieftains had certain ways of
coaxing nomads into collecting forest products and conducting trade exclusively
with them, but they could not coerce nomads, as this would result in their
withdrawal from trade contacts (Sellato 1994a). These ways included a relative
lack of alternative trade outlets for the nomads, for reasons of distance or warfare,
which made them dependent for manufactured goods on their settled partners;
the establishment of marriage and blood-brotherhood bonds between nomads
and farmers; some degree of cultural assimilation; and, in some cases, the need for
a nomad to supply an expensive bridewealth to marry into the farming group.
For example, several Bukat bands associated with the Kayan on the Mendalam
River, upper Kapuas, while another Bukat group associated with the Aoheng on
the uppermost Mahakam; one Lisum band took refuge with the Kenyah Leppo’
Tau around Apo Kayan; one Penan Geng group followed the Kenyah Badeng
into the Bahau; the Punan Mentarang associated with the Tebilun (or Abai) in
the Sesayap, and part of the Punan Tubu also associated with the Tebilun in the
lower half of the Tubu River; the Punan groups in the Kelai and Segah rivers
associated with the Segai of Berau. In the same way, bands of Beketan (or Ukit)
associated with certain upriver Iban communities in central Sarawak.
These partnerships were sometimes quite stable through time, and Punan
bands sometimes willingly followed their farming partners along the latter’s
migrations to new lands. If, however, the farming chieftain treated ‘his’ Punan
unfairly in trade or made excessive demands on them (e.g., corvées or expeditions),
the nomadic band would simply move away and find a better partner. For
example, the Punan Kohi of the Langasa River, associated with the Busang Uma’
Suling on the upper Mahakam (Sellato 1994a: 170), felt they were treated as
slaves by the Busang chief and migrated east, to end up on the Merah River (see
above) in an association with the local Bahau group.
Nevertheless, in the most isolated areas, other nomadic bands were relatively
free to range vast stretches of uninhabited forested mountains between major
river basins, maintaining shifting associations with various farming groups over
water divides. For example, the Kereho of the Busang River traded to the upper
Kapuas, as well as with their Ot Danum neighbours downstream (Sellato 1994a:
75–100); the Punan of the upper Murung, Central Kalimantan, traded with the
people of the region above the rapids of the Mahakam as well as with their Murung
73
neighbours downstream (Sellato 1986). Considerations of the current economic

opportunities at the time – e.g., types of trade products and their prices – and of
practical constraints – distance or insecurity – governed trade patterns.
Trade thus fashioned the patterns of relationships between nomads and
farmers. While nomads, once they had adopted iron axes and dogs, could no
longer satisfy themselves with their old subsistence techniques, farmers needed
the revenue of forest-product trade in order to acquire imported prestige goods
(ceramic and bronze artefacts) and modern weaponry (small cannons). So,
nomads and farmers needed each other’s trade (for further discussion, see Sellato
1994a: 164 et sq.).
For the sake of my argument, I must stress here the distinction between
stratified and non-stratified tribal groups and the impact of this distinction on
the evolving relations of nomads with their neighbours, in terms of ethnicity.
While the economic base of all these settled Bornean societies has largely been
the same – prominent swidden rice cultivation, hunting and fishing of varying
importance, and trade – stratified societies are those in which inequality is
ideologically expressed in formal, named classes (or ranks) that are, furthermore,
functional and relevant at all levels in everyday life. Non-stratified societies do not
formally express inequality and, when they do, it is not really relevant and functional
in daily life. Rather than being egalitarian, however, they are highly competitive,
and prestige, status, and political influence distinguish the ‘good’ (and rich) from
the ‘bad’ (and poor) (see Sellato 1987, 2002b; also, Sellato forthcoming 2).
Although non-stratified societies comprise the bulk of the inland peoples of
Borneo, in the regions under consideration stratified societies are the rule rather
than the exception (see Rousseau 1990). They include various sub-groups of the
Kayan (Kayan proper, Busang, Bahau), Kenyah, and Modang (Ga’ai, Segai,
Long-Gelat), as well as certain other linguistically and culturally related groups
(Merap, Aoheng, etc.).
It is really not so much the ideology of inequality that has relevance here than
the ‘closed’ vs ‘open’ nature of these societies (Sellato 1987, 2002b). Social
ascription in stratified groups is very rigid – a person belongs to a stem family,
itself belonging to a longhouse, which itself belongs to an aristocratic family, and
this holds for one’s lifetime and one’s offspring. In such a bounded society, an
individual is either a full member of the community, socially as well as ritually,
or a complete stranger. Conversely, in a number of non-stratified societies, group
membership focuses more on a system of ego-centred networks (‘grid’) of
personal relations than on social structure or even kinship. These are more
informal, more fluid, and individuals and families, and even groups, are often
74
free to move in and out of the community as part of a dynamic process of fission
and fusion (see Sellato 1997 and forthcoming 2). (This is not quite true of other
non-stratified societies, such as the Iban.)
Another distinguishing feature is the fundamental dedication of stratified societies
to rice farming based on their cosmogony and ideology. People of the commoner and
slave categories are often fully employed by their aristocratic masters at farming and,
therefore, devote relatively little time to collecting forest products. In contrast to this,
individuals in non-stratified societies are relatively free to select their economic
pursuits and may choose to invest their time in collecting rather than farming. This
is particularly true in pioneer regions, where forest-product collecting is an important
activity involving many households, and where long-distance expeditions, well
beyond the community’s territory, are organised. This accounts for the fact that
stratified societies or, rather, their chiefs, have more need for Punan nomads, as
collectors of forest products, than do the non-stratified societies.
Indeed, in stratified societies, trade is mediated, pooled, and even appropriated
by the ruling families, who ‘own’ a territory and its resources, as well as a group
of people within the territory and these people’s labour. In the same way, they
own ‘their’ Punan and they alone deal with them. Conversely, in non-stratified
societies, any individual may establish bonds with a given Punan band and
conduct trade with it for his own benefit.
The societal features above must be kept in mind when discussing ethnicity
in Borneo. Through trade, cultural intercourse, intermarriage, and finally the
adoption of agriculture, nomadic groups associated with non-stratified farming
groups, in the course of time, simply assimilated into the patron group. In
cultural terms, as in terms of ethnic identity, they became the same as their
patrons. In this way, for example, the Lugat and a large part of the Beketan of
Sarawak became Iban, a group known for its especially strong capacity for
cultural assimilation of minor neighbouring groups; part of the Punan Murung
became Murung (Sellato 1986); and the downriver Kereho became Ot Danum
on the Busang River (see Sellato 1994a: 174).
In contrast, and this was the case in most of Kalimantan, particularly East
Kalimantan, social and cultural boundaries remained strong between nomadic
groups and stratified farmers, little intermarriage occurred, and communities of
former nomads remained separate. The Punan, then, generally retained their
name and their identity as Punan, although there are a few known cases of Punan
bands assimilating into stratified farming groups after very long periods of close
interaction. (The case of the Kenyah, nowadays a very heterogeneous cluster of
ethnolinguistic groups, is ambiguous: While some were ultimately derived from
75
nomadic bands, one is led to consider a bi-phased process with adoption of social
stratification occurring much later than the bands’ conversion to farming
practices; see Sellato 1995b.).
Punan have been encouraged by the chiefs of stratified farmers to remain
Punan, i.e., nomadic, and to carry on with their commercial collecting activities.
The role of trade in forest products is crucial in this process of non-assimilation.
Stratified groups need outsiders to collect for them in order to guarantee the flow
of trade. If they do not have their own Punan band, they may try to lure one
away from another farming group. Otherwise, they may ask outsiders from afar
to come and exploit their territories for them. For instance, the Kayan of the
upper Mahakam called in a team of Bekumpai, a Muslim Ngaju group from the
lower Barito for this purpose (Sellato 1986).
Ethnicity, thus, and particularly its persistence through interaction with
neighbouring farming groups, has very much depended on the stratified vs non-
stratified makeup of these neighbouring societies. Whereas stratified societies
contributed to the continuation of the Punan way of life and identity, the cultural
boundaries between nomads and non-stratified farmers involved in intensive forest-
product collecting became somewhat irrelevant and assimilation ensued, leading
to the waning of those Punan groups’ identity (for further discussion of Punan
identity, see Sellato 1993b).
In the case of the Punan Tubu, this contrast is quite striking. A proportion of
them were associated with the stratified Merap and persisted with their traditional
way of life till the end of the twentieth century on the upper Malinau. The other
part, long associated with the non-stratified Tebilun on the lower Tubu River,
have now virtually become Tebilun, except with regard to language (Kaskija
1998 and 2002, Sellato 2001).
The contrast, just described above, between two Punan subgroups separated
by geography has been found to occur also along a time scale. A reconstruction
of the history of the Aoheng showed nomadic groups easily assimilating into the
early Aoheng who were non-stratified horticulturalists. Later on, the Aoheng,
once they had become Kayanised and stratified rice farmers, simply stopped
assimilating neighbouring nomadic bands, who then remained around as
separate entities (see Sellato 1986, 1992, and 2002b).
TERRITORIALITY, TRADITIONAL AND MODERN

The three clusters of Punan communities under scrutiny in this study have been
and, to some degree, remain associated with stratified groups of shifting rice
76
farmers. This section focuses, firstly, on the way Punan territorial patterns in the
‘pre-colonial’ situation were set in relation to the regionally prevailing traditional
territorial patterns pertaining to stratified societies; and, secondly, on the way in
which, first, the colonial, and then, the Indonesian administrations dealt with
the question of Punan territories, again in the context of a prevalence of stratified
farming societies.
Prior to the time when collecting forest products for trade became their main
pursuit, nomadic groups were ranging the forest primarily in search of food, with
particular interest in sago palm groves. The distribution and size of sago groves
governed the size of the bands and the range and frequency of their migrations.
Although there might have been local conflicts between neighbouring Punan
bands over subsistence resources, most of the data available indicate that concepts
of territoriality were quite weak among the nomads (Sellato 1994a: 133–136).
Indeed, neighbouring bands, most often, were related by blood, and cooperation
rather than feud must have prevailed.
The domain of a Punan group, that is, the area within which a number of
related bands circulate, was typically an upland area of headwaters, straddling
the water divide of several river basins. It was, by definition, and at any point in
time, located upriver from areas occupied by the most inland farmers’ settlements
on any of the river basins concerned. Those limits were unstable through time,
as farmers could move further upriver in a quest for fresh farm lands or, on the
contrary, withdraw downstream, closer to market towns. These dynamic
boundaries had an effect on the Punan economy, constraining or expanding
their circular migration patterns.
It appears that a number of Punan groups refer to a place of origin, located
more or less at the centre of their area, and from which they dispersed and spread
(Sellato 1994a: 134). Whether based on historical reality or not, this somewhat
mythical ‘centre’ may have later come to form the foundation for modern
territorial claims. This mostly holds for those bands that believe that they never
migrated out of that area. Such is the case of the Bukat of West Kalimantan. In
contrast, relative newcomers to an area tend to overlook their alien origins and
focus territorial claims on their current area of residence. For example, the Lisum
now in the Tabang area never laid claim to former territories in Sarawak, although
they acknowledge that they once came from there (Sellato 1986), and instead
struggle to maintain their rights in Tabang. As for the Punan Tubu, in order to
sustain modern territorial rights, they now claim that they have ‘always lived in
the upper Tubu River’, although their historical tradition clearly tells of other,
extraneous origins (Sellato 2001).
77
These Punan domains, however, never have been formally recognised by

neighbouring farmers as ‘Punan territory’ – taken here in a legal sense. Territorial
boundaries were established between neighbouring farming groups through
formal treaties based on customary law. Territories could be conquered, sold,
borrowed, or given away for free, but were always the locus of a formal, ritually-
sanctioned agreement between the parties involved (Sellato 2001) – which did
not include nomadic bands. Such agreements were still used in formal land
transfers, even when brokered by the government, well into the 1990s (Jacobus
2003). Whereas their limits along main rivers were quite precisely set, territories
included whole tributary basins up to their water divides, where boundaries were
rather hazy. Therefore, the territories of farming groups were adjacent to one
another at the water divides, nomadic bands being in no way taken into
consideration in the delineation of boundaries, and there was therefore no
territory formally allocated to a nomadic group in a given area. According to
adat, nomads were residing and subsisting on farmers’ lands – they had the
usufruct, wild food resources, of these lands – and were often referred to by
farmers as ‘guests’ or ‘visitors’ (e.g., Sellato 1994a: v) – and held no traditional
territorial rights recognised by farming groups. The farmers’ chieftains, as
mentioned above, owned the territory – land and waters – and whatever grew on,
flew above, swam in, or walked upon it, and this included its Punan residents.
In the long process of progressive Punan sedentism (see Sellato 1994a: 163–214),
a trade hamlet was established, at the farmers’ initiative, right at the boundary of
their farming area, for the Punan first to come and trade, then to start some basic
forms of agriculture, and finally to settle for part of the year. In time, this hamlet
came to mark the downstream limit of the Punan subsistence and collecting
area. Much later, it would become a formal territorial marker which the Punan
would take advantage of.
Nomadic bands, then, whether they were still nomadic or half settled, whether
they still relied mainly on wild sago or had started relying on agriculture (Sellato
1994a: 173–180), spent much time collecting trade products for their farming
patrons or partners. Those trade products, which by then had become crucial to
both the farmer and the Punan economies, had to be protected and their sustained
flow guaranteed. The Punan at the same time exploited the farmers’ territory
and acted as its watchdogs at the water divides, defending it against intruders.
The farming chiefs made sure that no outsiders were allowed to collect in their
territories, in effect instructing the Punan to kill them.
Conflicts over trade resources, it appears, were much more common and much
bloodier than those over food resources had been (see Sellato 1994a: 136–139,
78
2005a). In this way, for example, the Bukat band of the upper Mahakam patrolled
the uppermost section of the river, which was the territory of the Aoheng of Long
Apari, and often skirmished with intruding teams of Iban collectors making
incursions from Sarawak. This led in 1885 to the region’s last full-scale war
(Sellato 1986). Other Bukat bands, on the upper Mendalam, attempted to ward
off, on behalf of their Kayan patrons, teams of marauding Iban and Beketan from
Sarawak.
Punan, thus, got into the habit of defending what they viewed as ‘their’ territories,
which sustained their economy, which had come to be based more on commercial
collecting than on subsistence hunting and gathering, but which remained de jure,
following the regional customary legal system, the farmers’ territories.
When farming communities decided to migrate to other areas, in order to
either procure fresh farming land or gain closer proximity to markets, associated
Punan bands, or some of them, occasionally chose to follow their partners.
Reasons were that the Punan needed the warlike farmers’ protection against
other warlike groups, such as the Iban, or simply that they were satisfied with
their current partnership. When reaching their new territory, the farming chief
would ‘install’ his Punan in a particular area, either because it was rich in forest
products or because it needed to be protected from enemy neighbours.
Sometimes, the farming chief would distribute his Punan to several areas to
suit his various purposes. In such a way, the Merap chiefs split their Punan
between the upper Tubu, rich in forest products, and the upper Malinau, where
the Merap held bird’s nest caves in need of protection. Likewise, the Kenyah
Badeng, moving from eastern Sarawak into the Bahau drainage basin, positioned
their Punan, the Punan Benalui (or Punan Badeng, a sub-group of the Penan
Geng of Sarawak), in both the upper Lurah area and the Aran River. In addition,
the diverse ‘Kayan’ groups that moved from the middle Bahau River down to the
lower Kayan River positioned their Punan as a buffer between themselves and
the Merap – and launched raids from there on the Merap’s caves.
At the onset of Dutch colonial rule over Kalimantan (for further details of
the Dutch colonial period in eastern Borneo, see Black 1985, Lindblad 1988,
Magenda 1991), scores of Punan groups had thus been positioned by their patrons
to occupy de facto – albeit not to own de jure – vast upriver tracts of territories
formally belonging to farming groups.
One important point, perhaps never previously stressed, is that, from the
first expeditions to the hinterland in the mid-nineteenth century, the Dutch
recognised Punan groups for what they were, i.e., separate ethnocultural entities,
ethnic groups in their own right, whereas the farming groups certainly had
79
tended, down the centuries (as did some anthropologists after them, e.g.,
Hoffman 1986), to view Punan societies as a mere part, or extension, of their
own world.
After 1900, and more in earnest after about 1920, the colonial administration
attempted to settle the Punan, out of a feeling of pity for those poor, forever-
wandering wretches whom they viewed as being taken advantage of and cheated
in trade by farmers, as well as out of a sense of mission to civilise the savages. The
administration cajoled the Punan headmen into moving their bands downstream
from their inaccessible forest haunts, urged farming chieftains to grant farm land
to the Punan, … and took over the trade in forest products from the farmers
(Sellato 1994a: 39–44).
It appears that the farmers’ understanding of this was that these lands were
simply lent to the nomads to help them convert to farming and become civilised
– an endeavour that they certainly did find worthy (see Bouman 1924) – and
that their formal ownership, based on their adat, of the land, as well as of
the nomads themselves, would not be later questioned. Indeed, the regional
adat of the hinterland tribal groups proved extremely resilient, to the extent
that it is still resorted to in today’s land conflicts in interior Borneo (see Jacobus
2003).
Through time, the Dutch mapped Kalimantan anew in administrative terms
down to the district, under a controleur (controller), and they apparently satisfied
themselves with condoning the prevailing adat territories of the farming groups’
villages. They did not intervene, except in cases of conflicts, to redraw local
ethnic boundaries and did not attempt to establish new, administrative territorial
boundaries at village level. The farming chiefs, who remained in charge
throughout the colonial period, felt that their authority over their lands and their
people was not really challenged, except for the abolition of slavery, which, at
least officially but not quite so in practice, deprived them of an important source
of revenue (Sellato 2001).
By the end of the colonial period, however, Punan groups were most often
positioned in the uppermost settlements of their river basins, not far upstream
from the last farming villages. They thus commanded vast, uninhabited areas of
the uppermost inland waterways, where farmers would hardly ever venture. In
fact, those areas were even vaster than before the advent of Dutch rule, for they
also included farm lands, on which the farming chiefs had settled Punan
bands.
Later on, the centralised Indonesian administration created the kecamatan, or
district, which more often than not followed the existing ethnic boundaries, and
80
the desa, or village, the smallest administrative division. The desa was allocated a
formal territory, or wilayah desa (see above). Each tiny hamlet of settled or half-
settled Punan, thus, found itself with a formal, bounded territory, which really
had been amputated from a farming group’s traditional territory, and over which
it now had full jurisdiction. This territory, usually an upper river basin, was
generally quite vast, densely forested, and rich in valuable commercial forest
products.
In this way, scores of small groups of former nomads have come to control
huge tracts of the hinterland, much to the resentment of these territories’ former
masters, who sometimes, still today, attempt to assert their traditional rights over
these lands, as in the case which the Merap of the upper Malinau are building
against the Punan Malinau.
In certain cases, however, luckier or more insightful farming chiefs had
arranged for their Punan partners to settle, or resettle, downstream from their
own villages, and thus remained formally in control of upriver areas. Such was
the situation for the Aoheng of Long Apari, whose previously nomadic Bukat
were resettled at Noha Tivap, downstream from Long Apari, leaving the Aoheng
in control of the headwaters area; or of the Kenyah Badeng, who maintained
three households at their old village of Long Bena, upstream from the resettled
Punan Benalui hamlets, only to retain control of the Lurah headwaters. This, of
course, does not preclude the Bukat or the Punan Benalui carrying on ranging
their former patrons’ inland territories in search of commercial forest products.
In the course of time, those Punan bands that, due to the stratified societies’
structural incapacity to assimilate them, had retained their Punan identity, by
the time of early Dutch interference, were recognised as ethnic entities in their
own right, and not just appendages to farming societies. Among the bands so
recognised as separate ethnic entities, those that, during Dutch times, settled
down upstream from their farming partners saw the areas they controlled expand
to include farm lands. Those groups that had remained as separate communities
were formally endowed with their own, exclusive territories, by the time the
Indonesian administration established the desa system. Finally, among the Punan
communities that were granted desa status, those that, because of their staunch
bent toward the hunting and gathering way of life, or by sheer chance, had
remained positioned as the uppermost settlement along their river, found
themselves formally in command of extremely vast territories and, as noted
above, among the biggest landlords in Kalimantan (see Map 3.1).
Then came the timber boom of the late 1960s and, later, the non-timber-
forest-product boom of the 1980s and 1990s.
81
YEAR 2000: TRADE, LAND CONTROL, AND NGOS

It is beyond the scope of this chapter to go into detail regarding types of non-
timber forest products collected and traded by the Punan (see Peluso 1983,
De Beer and McDermott 1989, Brosius 1995a, Van Valkenburg 1997, Sellato
1994a, 2001, 2002a). Whereas the non-timber forest product trade goes back
one millennium and, for some specific products, much farther, timber, until
and including the Dutch colonial period, was only exploited in coastal areas
and along the lower course of rivers, and principally for consumption within
Kalimantan (see Potter 1988).
The trade in forest products has long displayed cycles of boom and bust,
following market whims, at least during the last four centuries, where written
sources exist (see Boomgaard 1998, Boomgaard et al. 1997, Potter 1997, Knapen
2001). With the advent of Soeharto’s New Order, however, the forests of Kalimantan
were opened to wide-scale timber exploitation. Under the Banjir Kap system, in the
late 1960s, timber was felled just anywhere and left to be washed downstream with
the next river flood. Timber, a new commodity, became a new focus in Punan
economic activities. By 1970, the industry was centralised and regulated by the state
and timber companies were established on the lower and middle courses of major
rivers. Banjir Kap activity went on upstream for a few years, until the government
put a halt to it and, later, timber companies opened in the upstream regions.
The last 30 years have also seen an unprecedented boom in certain forest
products, particularly rattan and eaglewood (or aloe-wood; see Sellato 2001).
Systematic exploitation of eaglewood progressed from coastal to upland regions,
up to the most remote areas of the island (Sellato 2005a). In these areas, Punan
groups played an important role in this exploitation, as they had played a role in
timber felling.
Isolated as they might have been, the Punan were quick to respond to coastal
market demands, relayed to them by the networks of river traders. The flexibility
and versatility of their economic system and their overall opportunistic attitude
allowed them to switch overnight from one economic activity to another, or from
one forest product to another, based on a careful appraisal of costs and benefits
(Sellato 1994a), always with a penchant for immediate returns. In most cases,
collecting costly forest products remained a better choice than, for instance,
cultivating rice, which is one reason why the government’s efforts towards the actual
sedentarisation of the Punan have not, to date, registered much success (id.).
In the collecting venture, the Punan had an edge, due to their very presence
in the areas richest in forest products – these areas had hardly been touched, or
82
even visited before, other than by themselves – and their intimate knowledge
of the terrain and of the finest habitats of the resources that they were seeking.
It is here worth distinguishing between localised and clustered products, such
as rattan, which are predictable; and scattered and unpredictable resources, such
as the eaglewood tree, which may grow randomly and, moreover, does not always
contain the precious exudate (Sellato 2005a). For the collector, this distinction
is important: In the former case, the collecting involves going to known,
albeit remote, spots in the forest and bringing back the produce, e.g., heavy
loops of rattan; in the latter case, e.g., eaglewood, it involves organising long,
broad-sweeping expeditions through vast, uninhabited areas, and sometimes
returning empty-handed.
The Punan, thus, are well armed to exploit their official wilayah desa, and
much beyond, since they are used to ranging into neighbouring areas as well.
There are, however, two difficulties. Firstly, the Punan depend on the trader with
whom they are associated (see below). For long expeditions, they need fuel for
the outboard engines of their canoes, chainsaws, and even food supplies, since
they no longer produce their own food, whether wild sago or cultivated rice.
Secondly, they are unable actually, physically, to prevent teams of outside
collectors from entering their wilayah and collecting there. In the old days, such
intruders would simply have been killed, something the Punan may no longer do
today. In any event, fierce competition for scarce resources often ensues, which
has led in many areas to the complete depletion of eaglewood trees.
The Punan collect large quantities of valuable products which they trade in
downriver markets. In exchange, they procure manufactured equipment, such as
outboard engines and chainsaws, as well as prestige goods, from gold wristwatches
to television sets. In the 1980s, one would see many more large radio-cum-
cassette-players in a Punan hamlet of 50 souls than in a farming village of
500 people. By any first-sight standard the Punan are rich, much richer than any
rice farmer would ever become. This first-sight impression, however, must be
qualified, as is shown below.
Caught in competition with outside collectors, the Punan have shown the
same ruthlessness as their competitors with regard to the sustainability of their
modes of exploitation. As I have argued elsewhere (Sellato 2005a), the Punan,
like other ‘traditional people’ (see below), tend to display sustainable practices of
management of wild food resources, based on local concepts of ownership or
guardianship of the land, whereas, in their management of wild forest resources
with long-distance trade value but little or no local use, they often practise severe
forms of extractivism. Such people, I concluded, do not maintain any ideological
83
or religious values regarding ‘good’, sustainable resource tenure. Rather, they

display common-sense, pragmatic economic attitudes appropriate to earning
the best possible reward out of their lands (ibid.), and no moral judgment should
be passed about this. Indeed, while the Punan, among others, clearly were
instrumental in the extinction in their area of, for example, the Sumatran
rhinoceros and the eaglewood tree, the blame could just as well be laid on the
regional market situation.
Nevertheless, in the 1980s, experts and major international environmental
organisations, after conceding that people living in the forest could no longer
simply be ignored (hence, the advent of ‘social forestry’), developed the notion
that traditional resource tenure could be utilised in nature conservation (hence,
‘community-based conservation’ – really an advocacy tool more than an
operational concept; C. Eghenter, pers. comm.) and, eventually, that ‘traditional
people’ were ‘born conservationists’ (on this, see McNeely and Pitt 1985,
Poffenberger 1990, Redford and Padoch 1992, Kleymeyer 1994). This was based
upon the assumption that these people, having a very intimate knowledge of
their natural environment, do manage it wisely, i.e., in a sustainable way (see
Brosius 1997 for a detailed description of such environmentalist representations;
and Eghenter 2000 on indigenous forest tenure in Borneo), because they have an
ideology of ‘living in harmony with Nature’, or even some kind of religious
beliefs in a ‘Mother-Forest’.
It ensued from the idea of these ‘traditional peoples’ as born conservationists
that they should be viewed as our mentors in dealing with the forest in order to
both earn a living from it and preserve it (for a critical assessment, see Ellen and
Harris 1997, Sellato 1999). And who better than the Punan, supposedly the
most knowledgeable of all forest dwellers (but see Voeks in this volume), might
fill that position? The neo-romantic myth of the Punan as ‘children of the forest’,
symbols of life in harmony with Nature, and guardians of the forest against
evil outsiders was thus begun (cf. the Bruno Manser saga in Sarawak; see Brosius
in this volume; about the ‘ecologically noble savage’, see, e.g., Redford 1991).
The notion of ‘traditional people’ was soon promoted and marketed by
environmental organisations to institutional donors and the wider public, who
readily condoned it, the former because the idea was new and trendy at the time
and thus had market value, and the latter because the Western world seemed to
need this myth – and both poured enormous amounts of funds into NGO
programs focused on it.
In the early 1990s, major environmental NGOs began to hire anthropologists
to participate in such conservation projects that claimed to implement a grassroots
84
approach involving local forest people. Unfortunately, while their presence was
needed to answer for the project’s social science component, anthropologists
remained, at best, minor partners and, often, their findings were largely ignored
(see Sellato 1999), as those NGOs generally remained deeply indifferent to
indigenous life ways and their survival. (For a discussion of the need for a long-
term, localised, holistic social-science approach to conservation management, see
Eghenter and Sellato 2003: 11–19).
However, the notion of ‘traditional people’ was also very willingly endorsed by
the people concerned, particularly the Punan, who soon realised their advantage
in doing so. As has been noted for another region of the world, indigenous
movements often gain social recognition through their appropriation of their
NGO allies’ ideological world (see Albert 1997). While this appropriation is, after
all, part of a process of permanent renegotiation of tradition, and while it was also,
somehow, what the NGOs strived to achieve, the problem encountered in the
field often was of a strong contradiction between Punan formal discourse and
actual deeds.
The myth of the ‘traditional people’ was picked up, soon afterwards, by
international and regional NGOs active in assistance to social-economic
development. Not only were those Punan the wisest ‘keepers of the forest,’ and
thus politically very correct, but they were also poor people in need of assistance,
and were even viewed, because of their remote locations, as the most
disadvantaged of all, deprived as they were of all the benefits of civilisation (see
Kaskija 2002 and in this volume; and Sellato 2001). So, Punan communities
became the prime targets of certain NGOs, and beneficiaries of assistance
programs, in the form of cash, material goods, education, and training towards
their ‘development’.
About the year 1995, the same NGOs that had struggled to get the government
to concede that the ‘wise traditional people’ were indeed good managers of their
forests, began lobbying openly for the recognition by government agencies of the
right of those people to manage their wilayah desa and retain full and exclusive
rights over their wilayah’s resources. So far, they have recorded some success
(e.g., in Bulungan). In other cases, NGOs have assisted communities in going to
court and wresting a ruling allowing them to retain control of their resources
(e.g., the Aoheng and their bird’s nest caves; see Sellato forthcoming 1). Often,
though, the situation is not as clear in practice as it may look on paper. But there
is a fair-to-good chance that it will improve in the coming years, and spread to
other regions, especially in the current context of decentralisation, where adat is
given a certain degree of autonomy within national law.1
85
In an attempt to ‘empower’ traditional peoples, locally-based NGOs have been

brought on and entrusted to take over from larger NGOs the job of promoting
local interests. Such grassroots NGOs now include several Punan organisations
that, unfortunately, have not proved very efficient so far, due to individualistic
behaviour and diverging pursuits, which is typical of traditional Punan society.
Since the turn of the third millennium, Punan communities have been
benefiting from a conjunction of favourable factors. One the one hand, they are
receiving assistance from all quarters toward their social and economic
development; on the other hand, their exclusive right to the control and
management of their lands and resources is increasingly being recognised. Finally,
and perhaps more importantly for the future (to secure further assistance), they
still project a positive image to the outside world.
The eaglewood has been exhausted, although in some regions it has grown
back, and the price of rattan has recently risen again. The traditional economic
versatility of the Punan remains, as it has long been, a trump card. It will remain
a trump card as long as new opportunities come their way.
SITTING ON A TROVE: WHAT ACTUAL BENEFIT?

From the above, it may be concluded that, in many cases, and contrasting with
Penan groups in Sarawak (see Brosius’ and Sercombe’s chapters in this volume), the
Punan of Kalimantan, ‘innocent children of the forest’, have fared rather well in
less than one century, rising from ethnocultural non-entities and negligible ‘guests’
on others’ territories to the sole formal masters of immense tracts of forest.
All things considered, two points should be taken stock of here. Firstly, these
Punan are not innocent victims, left behind by development. The well-worn
metaphor of the pure, gentle, innocent nomad has been already extensively
critiqued by anthropologists. Clearly, the Punan should be viewed, rather, as
fully fledged agents, using and manipulating other actors in their social and
economic landscape toward strictly Punan goals. In this sense, they exploit their
social environment in exactly the same way – a typical ‘hunting-gathering’ way
– that they do their natural environment.
Secondly, they should not, just because they live in relatively isolated locations,
be regarded as particularly ‘poor’. Although this may appear as a rather
unconventional view, it should be held that their general economic predicaments
are mostly, in fact, rather good, especially when compared to Indonesia’s urban
and peri-urban poor. Many Punan in Kalimantan are, now more firmly than
ever, occupying large patches of tropical rain forest, which is considered for
86
various reasons a very valuable asset by a broad range of diverse parties, and
which will bring them an improved standard of life provided that they handle it
intelligently.
This is where latent advantages prove deceitful. Despite their present boon –
and its promising outlook – with regard to control of land and access to resources,
many Punan groups do remain intrinsically poorly equipped – psychologically,
socially, and politically – to fully benefit from their situation.
First, historical factors hinder Punan progress. They lag behind in terms of
formal education and legal awareness, and this has made them vulnerable, but
church organisations and NGOs have helped much in this respect in recent
decades. Also, since the forest-product trade usually was controlled by farming
chieftains, the Punan have little experience in dealing directly with urban traders
and coastal merchants. But they are learning fast. Finally, since they traditionally
abided by farming groups’ customary law (adat), they do not have their own,
long-established institutions, which they need in order to make government and
other agencies recognise their ‘traditional tenure’ and, therefore, their rights on
their territories’ resources. Such institutions, a specific Punan adat, they are now
building ex nihilo through their own grassroots NGOs. By inventing their
tradition, the Punan are becoming wiser by the day.
But other, more internal factors have kept them back, upon which NGOs can
hardly act. The very resilient nomadic ideology – involving an egalitarian society,
nuclear-family autonomy, etc. – has prevented the Punan from organising
themselves efficiently as social groupings, with the political clout to defend their
resources against outsiders, either in the legal field or on the spot. Extant Punan
organisations have registered immense progress, but they are often plagued by
factionalism. Punan egalitarianism, individualism and a proclivity to look for
individual solutions to problems have remained a strong obstacle (on how the
egalitarian ethos hinders the emergence of effective leadership, see Endicott
1988). Simply because they have proved unable to properly organise, Punan
communities often remain somewhat subject to outside parties – their former
farming patrons, traders, government officials – and even to some of their own
people who take advantage of them.
In the economic field, the Punan’s traditional versatility has prevented them
from focusing on steady goals in the long term, in the same way that their
tenacious ‘immediate-return’ turn of mind has prevented them from investing,
in the broader sense of the word, in delayed-return activities. As soon as they
bring a load of forest products to the trader, the Punan tend to acquire expensive
prestige goods of little practical long-term utility.
87
The role of the trader, here, is of critical importance. The Punan may still
trade with their former patrons (e.g., the Punan Bahau), or allow one of their
own to act as a trader (e.g., the Punan Malinau), or bypass everyone upstream to
conduct business directly with a Chinese trader in town (e.g., the Punan Tubu;
on the role of the Chinese, see Bertling 1925, Sellato 2001), they remain
dependent on the trader (or tokay), who keeps them in his debt by sponsoring
their expeditions, coaxing them into taking goods on credit, and paying them in
kind rather than cash. The Punan thus tend to remain forever caught in this
hutang (or utang, or ijon) system, to the effect that, in the long run, the wealth of
forest resources amounts to little actual benefit in terms of improvement in their
health, education, or general welfare circumstances.
Finally, two features have been noted recently among Punan communities
(Sellato 2001). One is the emergence, more acute than ever before, of an ‘assisted-
ness’ attitude, whereby no action is taken to improve a situation or solve a problem
unless there is some initiative, accompanied by (financial) ‘assistance’ (bantuan),
taken by outside parties. This, as I see it, derives from several factors: the Punan’s
general inability to organise and the expectation that someone else will take care
of a given problem; the fact that, having become used to being made the recipients
of assistance, they tend to play – and quite well – the part of helpless wretches
(see Kaskija in this volume); and the administrative tradition of the proyek in
Indonesia, whereby nothing is done but through government-sponsored ‘projects’.
While the state explicitly tries to promote keswadayaan (self-reliance) among
rural communities, the Punan seem to be heading toward more ketergantungan
(dependency).
The second feature is, for the Punan – and, with them, all ‘traditional people’
– an increasing risk of discredit and, therefore, of disfavour in the eyes of both
the NGOs that help them and, later, the wider world, due to the failure of some
communities to rise up to NGO expectations. Cases have been reported of Punan
communities selling off to outsiders the rights that NGOs had struggled to
secure them – selling gold mining rights on the upper Kapuas, or selling rights
to exploit timber in Malinau District. (Similar cases have been documented
elsewhere in the world, especially in Latin America.) To date, the Punan still
project a positive image. This image, however, may be seriously damaged by such
whimsical occurrences as mentioned above, should they become more frequent.
The Punan are ‘virtually’ rich, but many remain poor. All external conditions
are met to create great economic opportunities for them. But only by adjusting
their ‘internal’ – psychological and ideological – conditions to modern social and
economic circumstances, i.e., by altering to some degree their ‘hunting-gathering’
88
outlook and thus losing some of the basic tenets of their Punan-ness, will they be
able to fare as well in this century as they did in the last, or even better.
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to Cristina Eghenter, Lars Kaskija, and Peter Sercombe for many
relevant and useful comments, and to KJJ for proofreading. I am also grateful to
several anonymous reviewers for their useful critiques.
NOTE
1. A cursory review of the revival of interest, witnessed in the course of the last two
decades, in traditional legal systems may be useful here. The Dutch colonial
administration, as well as Dutch scholars, certainly had acknowledged the existence
of the indigenous legal systems that they had found throughout their East Indies,
and taken an interest in them (e.g., Van Vollenhoven 1931–33 and, for Kalimantan,
Mallinckrodt 1928; I am not considering here either the cases of Islamic law, or
variants thereof, or of Hindu communities), and this was not only in order to tighten
their hold on the archipelago. During the Soekarno period, however, establishing
and maintaining a unitary state being top priority, little case was made of those legal
systems, for the fact that they were hampering general acceptance of the national
law (see Soekanto 1954).
The New Order, and particularly the 1970s, saw some development. Room
was made within the constitutional framework to accommodate a couple of major
indigenous religions. And, concomitant with the translation from the Dutch into
Indonesian of Ter Haar’s important 1937 work, Indonesian scholars began working
on and publishing about adat law (hukum adat) – both its local expressions and its
general relevance (see, e.g., Koesnoe 1969, Iman 1969, Adiwinata 1970, Soerjono
1971, Surojo 1971; also, see Soerjono’s 1976 bibliography). This subject was of
concern to the state and, in 1975, the BPHN (Biro Pembinaan Hukum Nasional,
Bureau for the Promotion of the National Law) held a seminar on ‘Adat Law and the
Promotion of the National Law’. Later on, the understanding of adat under national
law, particularly under the Basic Agrarian Law (UUPA) of 1960, was examined
(e.g., Abdurrahman 1984), as well as, in some instances, its possible development
within it.
From the late 1980s on, following in the path of Kalimantan Muslim scholars, like
Abdurrahman, a few (Christian) Dayak scholars (e.g., Jacobus 1988, 2003, Angguk
et al. 2003, Devung and Rudy 1998) had begun, either of their own initiative or
within programs induced from the outside (e.g., WWF’s ‘Culture and Conservation’
research program; see Eghenter and Sellato 1999 and Eghenter, Sellato, and Devung
2003), to investigate individual Dayak legal systems in a rather ethnographic way.
The (more or less) guarded political agenda was to help local communities sustain
claims of sovereignty, or at least right of tenure, over their traditional territories. By
the mid-1990s, in the new context of decentralisation and regional autonomy, foreign
scholars (e.g., Evers 1995, Fitzpatrick 1997) picked up the trend and examined
local indigenous legal systems in contrast with the national law – how they were
89
conflicting, how selected elements from the former could be integrated into the
latter and, mostly, whether and how increasingly loud local demands for land rights
should be met. In the late 1990s, after the fall of Soeharto, grassroots and province-
based NGOs, supported by international NGOs, along with Dayak scholars, turned
to outright political advocacy.
90
Chapter 4
THE EMERGENCE OF THE ETHNIC

CATEGORY BHUKET: DIVERSITY AND
THE COLLECTIVE HUNTER- GATHERER
IDENTITY IN BORNEO
By Shanthi Thambiah
Abstract: This chapter focuses on the Bhuket, a group of hunter-gatherers of about

1,000 people scattered across central Borneo. It begins by exploring the past in
order to reconstruct the ethnogenesis of Bhuket as an ethnic category, and moves on
to examine the cultural category ‘Punan’ in the present context. It argues that this
ascription denies the inherent diversity and varied identities of hunter-gatherers in
different parts of Borneo.
INTRODUCTION
This essay begins by discussing the emergence of the Bhuket ethnic category.
By drawing on historical accounts based on events that took place from the
1840s onwards, I will show that the political-economic upheavals in the Balleh,
Kapuas, Mahakam, and Mendalam areas placed the Bhuket bands or sub-groups
on a stage that led to the emergence of the ethnic category Bhuket.
After exploring the past to reconstruct the ethnogenesis of the Bhuket as
an ethnic category, the essay will deal with the present. Although there have
been changes in the mode of subsistence of most hunter-gatherer communities in
91
Borneo, they continue to be regarded as hunter-gatherers through the cultural

category ‘Punan’ which is used as a term for the identification of hunter-gatherers.
The cultural identity of the Bhuket is that of hunter-gatherers, and they continue
to perceive themselves and be labelled as such even with the diversification of their
subsistence activities. Being hunter-gatherers in Borneo today is not only a reference
to their past hunting and gathering practices, but is also linked to their life ways
and attitudes at the present time. The commonality observed in the social life of
hunter-gatherers is used to accord them with a collective identity as Punan. This
paper will problematise this endeavour for it denies diversity in the social identities
of the hunter-gatherers of Borneo. It also denies the hunter-gatherer communities a
history of their own. In the investigation of present day hunter-gatherer communities,
one cannot avoid explaining social change and emerging identities.
Finally, this essay calls for recognition of the diversity of the hunter-gatherer
population of Borneo, and what the collective term Punan now means to them.
Although the Punan and Penan are the better known forest nomads, there are
lesser known forest nomads who do not identify themselves as Punan or Penan.
It is important to give attention to the ways in which the people concerned
see themselves and their world, rather than impose on them the dominant society’s
own set of constructions and stereotypes.
THE BHUKET
The Bhuket, as an ethnic group, comprise five communities living far apart from
one another in West Kalimantan, East Kalimantan, and the headwaters of the
upper Balui in Sarawak (see Map 4.1). Although they live physically dispersed in
the interior of central Borneo, the vastness of space between these communities
has not isolated them one from another. They are interrelated, and interaction
between them has always been maintained. In a census taken by the author in
1993–1994, there were 578 Bhuket in West and East Kalimantan, and 267 Bhuket
in Sarawak. The Bhuket settlements are located at Long Ayak (Upper Balui)
in Sarawak, Nanga Balang, Metelunai, and Nanga Hovat (or Nanga Obat) in
West Kalimantan; and Naha Tivab (or Naha Tiwap, or Noha Tivap) in East
Kalimantan. Population figures were as follows: Long Ayak 276; Nanga Balang
63; Metelunai 220; Nanga Hovat 148; and Naha Tivab 133. Therefore, the total
Bhuket population in 1993 comprised 845 persons, and it probably stands at
around 1,000 today.
The Bhuket are hunters and gatherers but today are also involved in various
other economic activities, such as swidden rice agriculture, the collection of
92
The Emergence of the Ethnic Category Bhuket
Map 4.1. Bukat Settlements
jungle produce for trade, the cultivation of cash crops, and wage labour, while at
the same time hunting and gathering continue. Although they form an egalitarian
society, the concept of rank is used by the Bhuket according to situation. The
ideology of rank can be abandoned or activated depending on the circumstances.
Bhuket claim that they possess a ranking system similar to that of their closest
neighbours, the Kayan, which is deployed in interaction with stratified societies
(for more on this, see Thambiah 1995: 133–148). Within the context of their
own community, however, they are egalitarian in their practices.
The terms Bukat and Ukit were exonyms that have contributed to the creation of
the endonym Bhuket. There are a variety of terms used by agriculturalists to refer to
nomads. Baring-Gould and Bampfylde state that the word Ukit is from the Malay
word bukit, which means hill; hence orang ukit means ‘hill people’ (1909: 33).
According to King (1985: 52), Maloh categorise forest nomads of the upper Kapuas
as tau ‘ukit (‘hill people’) or tau toan (‘forest people’). The phonetic convergence
between Bhuket and bukit / ukit may be the reason for the variation in exonyms.
To establish the original homeland of hunting and gathering people who are
highly mobile is a most taxing problem. However, according to Bouman (1924),
the Bhuket originate from the sources of the Balleh, a tributary of the Rejang River
in Sarawak. He referred to them as Menyimbung.1 They then moved to the
Mendalam River in West Kalimantan, and then to the Mahakam, where some still
live (cited in King, 1974a, 1974b). Bhuket have been mentioned together with other
93
nomadic groups of Borneo. Hose and McDougall refer not only to the Punan, but
also to the Ukit (Bhuket) and the Bukitan (Baketan) as belonging to nomadic
groups (Hose and McDougall 1912, i: 35n, ii: 178). Haddon states that: ‘All the
tribes, except the Punans and the Ukits, are agriculturists’ (Haddon 1901: 323).
Furthermore, the Bhuket are said to be related to the culturally extinct Seru (Sru).2
According to F. de Rozario:3
The Sru Dyaks appear to have originally belonged to some branch of the Ukit
tribe. In former days perhaps some three or four hundred years ago, the Ukit
lived in the Balleh (then known as the Jengian) at the mouth of the Lugat. For
many years they appear to have lived there in peace, but were at last surprised
and attacked by the Kayans, at that time a most powerful tribe. The result of
this attack was that many of the Sru people were killed or captured, and the
remainder fled that part of the country and dispersed (1901: 341).4
De Rozario also stated that the Seru language differs very little from that of the
Bhuket and that ‘[t]he Sru Dyak words which were printed in the Sarawak Gazette
were read out to some Ukits who understood every word as belonging to their
language’ (1901: 342).5 De Rozario also remarked that the Bhuket, Baketan, Seru,
Bliun,6 Segalang,7 Lisum,8 and Lugat9 were culturally related (Sarawak Gazette
Sept 1901: 175).10
The Bhuket, like the Seru, lived in the Balleh before invading Iban drove
them out of the area. Iban migration was mingled with headhunting raids
directed against the Bhuket and other forest nomads11 who were the previous
inhabitants of the Rejang region. The Bhuket resisted Iban migration into the
Balleh, but by the mid-1880s they were driven into the Kapuas, while some
Bhuket retreated to the extreme upper Rejang-Balui area (Low, ‘January Diary,’
Sarawak Gazette, 2 June 1884: 221; ‘March Diary,’ Sarawak Gazette, 1 July
1884: 222). This group of Bhuket lived with Lisum in Long San, in the upper
Balui, but left to join the Bhuket in the Kapuas after the Iban from Sut attacked
and massacred the Lisum12 in the early 1900s. The Kayan of Uma Belor and the
Kenyah of Uma Kelap also suffered a severe attack from the Iban during the
massacre of the Lisum. Iban wanted revenge for an earlier murder of three Iban
working rattan in the Naha Nyabong area. The present Bhuket settlement in the
upper Balui was formed from a completely new migration, which began from
Kapit in the early 1900s.
The Bhuket, unlike other nomadic groups, contested the Iban advance into the
Balleh area. In his examination of Iban history, Freeman made a contrast between
Ukit-Iban and Bukitan-Iban13 relationships in the Balleh. He states:
94
A very significant feature of the Iban migration into the Rejang basin, was the
special relationship – symbiotic in character, which existed between the Iban
and the Bukitans. The nomadic Bukitans, whose ancestral territory the Rejang
was, acted as guides and allies to the more numerous and accomplished Iban,
and under Iban influence they gradually came to follow the Iban methods
of cultivating rice, and ultimately, to live in longhouses of their own making.
The nomadic Ukits, on the other hand, were inveterate opponents of the
Iban, and contested their advance at many points, especially in the Balleh area
(Freeman 1955a: 14–15).
Their resistance to Iban migration into the Balleh had earned them a reputation
for being wild and dangerous people, and they were much feared by those working
forest produce. The Sarawak Gazette (1 March 1882) reported that:
They [Bhuket] are often tall, well-made, stout fellows, with rather pleasant
countenances and manners, and although often barbarous in their acts with that
never failing poisoned arrow, the dread of the Dyaks who can never see or hear
the blower – who are knocked over when in search of gutta percha or other jungle
produces, and have no hope of making any retaliation (1882: 11).
Further early information on the Bhuket, though limited and fragmentary,

can be gleaned from scattered references (Haddon 1901: 320–323; Roth [1896]:
17–19; Urquhart 1955a: 193–204; 1959: 75; Runciman 1960: 226). The basic
features of their lifestyle and character are described by Baring-Gould and
Bampfylde, who state that:
The Ukits, Bukitans and Punans, with the exception of the Punan Bah of
the Balui, are the wildest of all the races in the island. The Ukits are light in
complexion, tall and well knit, and better looking than other inland tribes.
Formerly they did not reside in houses, or cultivate the soil, but roamed about
in the jungle, and subsisted on wild fruit and the animals they killed. But some
of these have begun to erect poor dwellings, and do a little elementary farming.
They are expert with the blow-pipe, and in the manufacture of the upas-poison,
with which the points of their needle-like arrows are tinged (1909: 13–14).
Another early observer, Beccari, confirmed their nomadic characteristics:
They are savages in the true name of the word, but they are neither degraded nor
inferior races in the series of mankind. Their primitive condition depends more
than anything else on their nomadic or wandering life, and on the ease with
which they live on the produce of the forest and on that of the chase, which the
sumpitan (blow-pipe) procures for them. This has no doubt contributed to keep
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them from associating with their fellow-beings, and from settling in villages or
erecting permanent houses (1904: 363).
More recent literature pertaining to the Bhuket has given further information
on their nomadic life, history, interaction with their agriculturist neighbours and
on cultural and economic change (see King 1974a, 1974b, 1979, Sellato 1989,
1994a: 18–74, Rousseau 1990). In any event, it should be stressed that the Bhuket
of Sarawak, formerly at Sungai Ayak, although they are involved in diverse
subsistence activities, still spend much time foraging and hunting in the forest.
HISTORY AND MIGRATION

Prior to the second half of the nineteenth century, some Bhuket bands originated
from the sources of the Balleh River, a major tributary of the Rejang in Sarawak.
Bhuket today refer to the Balleh as Jengayan (cf. Jengian, above), and in their
conversation with other Bhuket, they use the word Jengayan synonymously with
Balleh. Their traditional territories stretched from the upper Balleh to the upper
Kapuas in West Kalimantan. They lived there in peace, but were attacked by the
Kayan in the late eighteenth century. This attack dispersed them. Iban migrations
into the Balleh commenced in the early nineteenth century and resulted in the
Bhuket moving further down the Kapuas and into the upper Mahakam. But the
Bhuket used to return to the Balleh whenever they wished to do so.
The Bhuket and the Iban, or Dayak (Dyak) as they were called, were engaged
in hostilities against each other from the 1850s onwards. According to F. de Rozario,
the officer incharge of Fort Balleh, in 1879 there was a scarcity of food and Ukits
trespassed into Iban gardens. He reported that two Ukit heads were brought back
by Ramian (possibly an Iban war leader) (Kapit Letters Book, Fort Balleh, 31 January
1879). The following month, Rejang, an Iban living in the Mujong River, returned
from mengayau (headhunting) bringing back one Ukit head and a five-year-old
captive girl. His party killed some Ukit living in the Ulu Balang, a branch of the
upper Kapuas, but the Ukit also wounded and killed some of Rejang’s men (Kapit
Letters Book, Fort Balleh, 6 February 1879).
By May 1879, the Brooke administration was seriously considering bringing
order to the borders of the Raj. Karun (Kaharun, according to my informant, was
an Aoheng chief from the Mahakam) was recommended to collect the Ukit living
in the Mekam (the Iban term for Mahakam), who were enemies of the Dyak (Iban)
and bring them to the Balleh to make peace with the Baketan (Bukitan, Baketan,
Mengketan) and Dyak. The Sarawak Gazette of 23 May 1879 reported that:
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[…] Karun was recommended to collect the Ukits living in Mekam waters
and who are at present enemies to the Dyaks and bring them to Balleh to
make peace with the Bakatans and Dyaks. Should the Ukits refuse to avail
themselves of this offer and persist in reprisal, then the Government would
no longer feel itself called upon to restrain the Dyaks from carrying on the
feud, the Government having to secure the frontiers from invasion and prevent
further annoyance.
On 29 May 1881, in a letter to H.B. Low, the Resident of the Rejang,

De Rozario stated that many Dyaks were going up the Balleh to work rattan, but
that he was suspicious that they were fortifying the Ukit. In an earlier letter dated
10 April 1881, he reported the killing of Ukit for taking Dyak paddy and that only
a few of the Ukit were left (Kapit Letters Book, 10 April and 29 May 1881).
The Sarawak Gazette of 1 March 1882 reported the massacre of three Dyak in
the Sut River by a band of Ukit on 6 February 1882, and on 21 February 1882,
Janen, the friendly Ukit, returned from the Mahakam and requested permission to
settle in the Serani River. According to Bhuket oral histories that I collected, by this
time a small group of Bhuket moved from the Mahakam and began erecting
dwellings in Long Layi, upper Balleh, under Janen’s leadership. Iban-Bhuket
relations worsened from then on, because a Bhuket woman named Heyat was
murdered by Saran, her Iban husband, at Long Layi.
By May 1883, there were government efforts to resettle the Bhuket, and a
Tanjong man named Ukat was sent to Ukit country to bring Janen for negotiations.
He returned unaccompanied by Janen, for Janen was not ready to move. Ukat
reported that:
[…] some five Ukit families only intended to come down, the rest, some forty
families, not following Janen but being under Kesiun, Amai, Ubong and Tujai
[Tehujai], their own headmen, and living in the watershed of the Kapuas and
the Mahakam, about 3 days walk from the head of the Jalunge, refuse to move
(Sarawak Gazette, 1 June 1883: 60).
After the incident at Long Layi, Bhuket attacks on the Iban increased.
For example, in October 1883, three Iban collecting gutta percha in the Baduli,
a branch of the Mengiong, were murdered by Ukit (Kapit Letters Book, 26 October
1883). The Sarawak Gazette of 1 April 1884 reported that ‘Janin the Ukit is of the
opinion that the three Dyaks killed in the Mengiong were killed by Lohi Ukit.’
Mr Low reported that ‘[t]he war between the Dyaks and Ukits is one of
extermination, unless the latter evacuate their country, and retire to the left bank of
the Kapuas’ (Sarawak Gazette, 1 April 1884, Mr Low’s November 1883 Diary).
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On Friday, 9 November 1883, a band of Ukit, ten or so in number, assailed but was
unable to take a Dyak langko (farm hut) in Sut. The Dyak followed the trail of
the war-party, but were recalled for fear of ambush (Sarawak Gazette, 1 April 1884,
Mr. Low’s November Diary). A week later, on Friday, 16 November 1883, permission
was granted for the Ukit to remove to Mujong to live with Sihan and Punan. According
to Mr. Low, ‘[i]t is clear they cannot exist here on the main river unless they are fed.
And I have done more for them in this way than I have ever done for any other tribe.
They are a perpetual drain upon the Treasury and do not promise to become a
producing tribe’ (Sarawak Gazette, 1 April, 1884, Mr Low’s November Diary).
By January 1884, many Iban war parties were going into Ukit country. The
Sarawak Gazette, 2 June 1884 (Mr Low’s January Diary 1884), reported that
‘Penghulu Ujung and Penghulu Igo have gone on the war-path into Ukit country.
So many having gone on this errand, it will be a wonder if they do not fall foul of
each other or of some other tribe.’
On 1 March 1884, eight Dyak men who went up to Bukit Batu returned
with eight Ukit heads. They reported to the officer-in-charge of Fort Kapit
that there were no more Dyak living up there except Ukit (Kapit Letters Book,
1 March 1884, Fort Kapit). The Ukit retaliated on 9 March 1884; Kling, son of
Unggal, informed the officer-in-charge that three of Ramian’s anak biak
(followers) were killed by the Ukit at the head of the Sut (Kapit Letters Book,
9 March 1884, Fort Kapit).
The Ukit continued their attack on the Iban; the Sarawak Gazette of 1 August
1884, reported that in March 1884 ‘[…] the wild Ukits have again succeeded in
killing three Kapit Dyak, a man and two boys. Igoh, a Government Penghulu,
returned from an authorised expedition against the Ukit. He had some of his party
wounded and killed.’
By April 1884, ‘[m]ore parties who were sent in search of the Ukits returned.
Mancha’s party from Kaniau [Kanowit], Antas from upper Kapuas and Unjung
from Mendalam. They found no Ukits’ (Sarawak Gazette, 1 August 1884, Mr
Low’s official diaries). Mr Low’s January and March Diaries of 1884 mentioned
that ‘[t]he Ukits resisted Iban migration into the Balleh but by the mid-1880s were
driven into the Kapuas, while some Ukit retreated to the extreme Upper-Rejang-
Balui’ (Sarawak Gazette, 2 June and 1 July 1884).
By July 1884, Janen, with nineteen men and two women, arrived in Kapit.
He informed the officer-in-charge of Fort Kapit that he had collected all the Ukit
in all 43 doors; they were left at Nanga Bakakap, and ten more doors were on the
march, to make up 53 doors. They were awaiting permission to stay there (Kapit
Letters Book, 14 July 1884).
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In January 1886, two more Dyak were killed in the Bagalo, a branch of the
Bloh in the Katibas, by Ukit (Kapit Letters Book, 9 January 1886, Fort Kapit).
In December 1887, several Dyak boats had gone up the Katibas River to go over to
the Kapuas headwaters, and the officer-in-charge of Fort Kapit was not certain of
their intention (Kapit Letters Book, 5 December 1887, Fort Kapit). My informants
in Nanga Hovat, the grandson of Sirai, chief of the Bhuket in the Mendalam
in the 1880s, said that this expedition of the Iban of Kanowit received a severe
counter-attack from the Bhuket. The Iban war leaders Galau and Tedong led the
war-party. Tedong, who had had a bad dream, left with his men, but Galau was
killed by the Bhuket, which brought to a halt Iban expansion into the Kapuas. The
Iban were attacked by Bhuket upriver, and by the Kayan from downriver, who by
then had cannons provided by the Dutch; the Iban caught in between were not
able to retreat. After this war, there were many attempts to make peace with the
Bhuket. My informant told me that Temenggung Koh’s (the paramount leader of
the Iban in the Balleh) father, Kanyan, who was considered to be of Bhuket descent
(a Lugat), was sent by the Brooke administration to encourage Sirai to come down
to Kapit for a peace settlement.
The Sarawak Gazette of June 1888 reported that Sirai, chief of the Lohe Ukit of
the upper Mendalam, came down to Kapit as a preliminary to making peace. The
Resident remarked that ‘[s]ome difficulties will arise as the Lohe tribe have always
shown themselves inveterate enemies of the Dyaks who are still smarting under
murders recently committed.’ The peace talks were not successful, for Sirai
committed fresh murders on his way back to the Mendalam, and Bhuket say that,
before leaving, Sirai performed a stunt of jumping and leaving his handprint on the
wall of Fort Kapit. Two years later, in June 1890, it was reported that three Ukit
leaders, Mieng, Apai Lasan, and Nyabong, were determined not to make peace
(Sarawak Gazette, 1 August 1890).
These records show that, although the Bhuket were massively outnumbered by
the Iban, they were not a defeated people. Instead, the Bhuket were feared. From
1892 to 1901, there was a long period of peace with the Iban and, in June 1901, the
Sarawak Gazette reported that the Ukit visited Kapit and the Resident observed
that ‘[t]hese people since they have enjoyed a long spell of friendship with the Dyaks
are constantly coming down to trade at Kapit’ (Sarawak Gazette, June 1901).
Five months later, in November 1901, the Bhuket were again in Kapit, this time
to learn the way to plant paddy: ‘A large party of Ukits were in the Bazaar. They
came from Leh in the Balleh, and their main object in coming down river was to
learn the way to plant paddy, which these jungle people had hitherto cultivated’
(Sarawak Gazette, 1 November 1901).
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Some time after this, the Iban-Bhuket relationship deteriorated again, due to
Iban expansion and Bhuket insistence on remaining in the upper Balleh. Iban
from the Ulu Ai began to range into the headwaters of the Kapuas and Balleh.
The Bhuket forged an alliance with the Aoheng and continued to take Iban
heads. Bhuket concentrated their activities across the border in the upper
Mahakam. In 1908, Rajah Charles Brooke wanted trusted Iban chiefs to keep
order in the Balleh, the principal danger being ‘collision with wild tribes of
Ukits and others living near the borders’ (Sarawak Gazette, 1908: 514). By 1908,
Ukit wanted to return to their country in the upper Balleh, and Janen came
down to Kapit to request such a return with 30 or 40 doors. Janen had been
gathering these people together since July 1884. They were living in Long Layi,
Bukit Batu, and Nanga Bakakap. The Brooke administration said that, if they
wanted to return to Sarawak territory, they would have to live in the vicinity of
Kapit Fort (Sarawak Gazette, 1908; 515).
In about 1911, the Bhuket did indeed move down to Kapit, but did not settle
well, for the Third Division Resident remarked: ‘A tribe called the Ukits who
moved into Balleh some two years ago from the Makam [Mahakam] have
continually been giving trouble to Government. They have now been told that they
can either settle down in the Rejang or return to their country, the Makam’
(Sarawak Gazette, 16 August 1913: 634). These records show that Bhuket were
determined not to give up their territory in the Balleh; but with the intervention of
the Brooke government, this group of Bhuket was finally removed from the Balleh
and resettled along the Balui.
The Bhuket lived across from Kapit at Batu Seputin for four years (1911–1915),
and here they were attacked by Iban from the Kapit area, and not from the Balleh.
In 1915, pushed by the Brooke administration, the Bhuket moved to Giam Mikai,
above the Pelagus rapids on the Rejang, where almost immediately they were
attacked by Ga’at Iban rebels under the leadership of Kasau, Kalat, and Tabor.
Ga’at rebels attacked a small party of Bhuket at Sungai Ari. A Bhuket by the name
of Boang was killed and the leader of the Iban also lost his life. The Sarawak Gazette
reported three Bhuket killed, and that the Bhuket had ‘put up a very good fight and
the enemy had considerable losses’ (Sarawak Gazette, 1 December 1915: 278).
During this period, the Bhuket were in the good books of the Brooke government
and the Iban were now considered the enemy.
After this battle, and with the whole of the upper Rejang and Balleh greatly
disturbed by raiding parties of Iban, the Bhuket moved further upriver to Belaga,
where they remained for about two years. According to Bhuket oral tradition, they
were led by Janen (of Melanau and Baketan descent), who married into their group
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and became its leader on the death of his father-in-law, Surek. In the following
section, we will see how this history of migration and warfare had contributed
towards the formation of the ethnic category Bhuket.
THE EMERGENCE OF THE ETHNIC CATEGORY BHUKET

From the above history of warfare and migration of the Bhuket bands that were
regrouped under the leadership of Janen, we can see that the political-economic
upheavals in the Balleh, Kapuas, Mahakam, and Mendalam brought the Bhuket
onto a stage where the Iban, the Kayan, and the Brooke administration took
significant notice of them. In addition to the changes in the political-economic
context in which Bhuket lived, there were also internal forces that operated
within Bhuket bands, which were important as adaptive strategies in the face
of changing circumstances. Out of this interplay of external and internal forces
emerged the Bhuket ethnic category. Importantly, it was not contact alone that
made the Bhuket significant to the Iban, the Kayan, and the Brooke Raj; rather,
it was the recognition by them of Bhuket as a distinctive ethnic element; this, in
turn, was due to the unique adaptation that the Bhuket made to the domination
of the Iban, the Kayan, and the Brooke Raj. It is the historical development of
Bhuket adaptation to changing circumstances that created the ethnic category
Bhuket.
These processes ultimately served to bring into realisation a collectivity of
people newly cognisant of their status as an ethnic category. The bands, which were
a chain of cultural instances, became a loose category in the context of interaction
with other dominant groups. However, I believe that the individual Bhuket did not
undergo much change in terms of behaviour to accommodate themselves to this
category.
Each of the puhuk (band) was linked to others, but had a separate existence.
According to Sellato:
It must, however, be stressed that the Bukat groups have always remained in
contact with each other across the mountain ranges. Traditionally, though, the
Bukat were divided into many bands, which sometimes entered into conflict
with each other. Each band, a descent group, was an autonomous political and
economic entity. The Bukat seem always to have identified with the band, that is,
with the family in the broadest sense, rather than with the ethnic group. Indeed,
there has apparently never been a Bukat coalition against an enemy, never any
policy or action involving more than one band, never any concerted migratory
movements, and therefore never any form of political organisation above the
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level of the band, up to recent times. Each leader of a band managed his people
as he liked (or rather as they liked) (1994a: 55).
The lack of collectivity above the level of the band is apparent in the above
quotation. For the Bhuket, formerly, the collectivity of all the sub-groups was an
abstraction that did not have an objective or concrete reality in their experience.
However, being referred to as a collectivity and treated as such gradually led
them to a realisation of a wider identity. Although the puhuk were interrelated and
in contact with one another, they did not see the significance of this wider, abstract
Bhuket category in concrete terms until the great upheavals of the mid-nineteenth
century, when the existence of the puhuk came under threat. As attacks became
serious enough to wipe out entire puhuk, brief periods of bounded Bhuket
inclusiveness were experienced as a response to political events; scattered Bhuket
came together for protection and safety after a raid on a particular puhuk. It is likely
that, at this time, episodes of strong apparent consciousness of some kind emerged,
but these were short-lived instances.
These events also coincided with the intervention of representatives of
the Brooke administration, who defined ethnic and group boundaries in terms
of specific cultural markers; they assumed the existence of exclusive boundaries
and homogeneous groups. The permeable nature of group boundaries was not
recognised, for it was untidy for administrative purposes. In this regard, Babcock
(1979) argues that identity came to be based less on geographical factors, and
more on ethnicity, due to the administrative practices of the Brookes. He states
that:
We have seen how the Europeans in Sarawak history have tried to impose their
own ideas of bounded, permanent and stable ethnic identity on the very different
Sarawak scene. The Brookes did their best to keep various peoples separate, to
make neat and tidy categories that were more in keeping with their orderly British
minds (Babcock 1979: 197).
It is highly likely that Janen, of Melanau and Baketan descent, was sent by the
Brooke Raj to collect the decimated puhuk groups and form a bounded unit where no
such entity existed before. European attempts at the stabilisation of identities became
increasingly successful with an associated rise in the level of ethnic consciousness.
However, at the individual level, this bounded existence is an abstraction in the mind
and, even today, it does not have much of a concrete, objective reality. But in the
context of social interaction today, individuals do express their identity, which can be
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said to be the result of their historical experiences. In the following sections, we will
look at how this emerging sense of ethnic identity comes into conflict with the
collective identification of hunter-gatherers as Punan.
HUNTER-GATHERERS TODAY
The hunter-gatherers of Borneo are today involved in various activities, such
as swidden rice agriculture, cash crop cultivation, and wage labour. However,
hunting and gathering are also maintained. Their current circumstances have
changed, but this has not in any way stopped them from being hunter-gatherers.
They farm like their agriculturist neighbours, although they are not as committed
or expert; furthermore, this has not led to a change in the perceptions of their
agriculturist neighbours, who do not see them as other than hunter-gatherers.
And they also perceive themselves as still directly connected with their hunting
and gathering tradition, and for them that tradition continues to provide
social and cultural meanings, which provide a contrast to their agriculturalist
neighbours in terms of identity.
Although, today, most hunter-gatherers of Borneo farm and might even live like
their settled agriculturalist neighbours, this has not resulted in them being other
than hunter-gatherers. Subsistence activities have undergone diversification, but
elements of hunting and gathering life ways and attitudes seem to persist and they
adapt to change in a flexible way. These features are often commented on by
neighbouring sedentary agricultural communities in their concept macam Punan
(Malay; meaning ‘like hunter-gatherers’). This is a reference not only to the past
hunting and gathering practices of forest nomads, but also to the flexibility that is
observed in their life ways at the present time, which contributes to the reproduction
of a hunting and gathering social organisation. Besides that, these life ways and
attitudes are highlighted by their agriculturalist neighbours, who engage in the
creation of certain stereotypes of hunter-gatherer communities, which fulfil their
own need for maintaining their cultural identity.
Being hunter-gatherers in Borneo today is not only related to engagement in a
particular mode of subsistence, but also has something to do with the flexibility of
hunting and gathering culture. Hunter-gatherers live in a modern and changing
context, as farmers, wage labourers, lorry drivers, chainsaw operators, teachers,
clerks, and so on, but paradoxically they remain hunter-gatherers through the
persistence of their flexible attitude to life. For the anthropologist, projection
backwards in time is not the only way to understand the dynamics of hunting and
gathering life ways; one must also try to understand hunting-gathering culture by
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examining the consequences of transformations, which are, in turn, elements in the

flexible cultural matrix of hunter-gatherers.
DIVERSITY AND THE PROBLEM OF THE COLLECTIVE

HUNTER-GATHERER IDENTITY OF PUNAN
The earliest appearance in print of the term Punan, referring to nomadic
peoples living in central Borneo, was in the work of J. Leyden (1968 [1814]).
He described these peoples as living ‘in the very rudest stage of savage life’ (1968:
93). Another early traveller, J. Dalton, also claimed to have met the nomadic
people of Borneo (Dalton 1831). The term Punan also appears in the list prepared
by Robert Burns of smaller tribes in northwest Borneo. His list recorded Kanowit,
Bukitan, Lugat, Tanjong, Tatau, Balingan, Punan, Sekapan, Kajaman, Bintulu,
and Tilian (1849: 141). It is interesting to note that Burns separated the Bukitan
and Lugat, who are also hunter-gatherers, from the Punan.
The Sarawak Gazette of 1 March 1882 gave information on the diversity that
existed within the category Punan: ‘[…] The names Ukit and Bakatan are what
they call themselves but [they] are ignorant of the origin of the term’ (1882: 11).
Charles Hose’s travel in the Baram district in northwest Borneo and his
encounter with the Punan there led him to state, ‘I have no doubt in my mind that
this wandering race of people are the aboriginals of the country’ (1893: 157). In his
classification published in 1912, Hose included Punan, Ukit, Siduan, and Sigalang
in his ‘Punan group.’ The Baketan (Bukitan, Bakatan, Mengketan) he classified as
a central group that included Seping, Tanjong, Kanowit, Baketan, and Lugat (Hose
1912, ii: 320). Subsequently, Raymond Kennedy classified Punan as comprising
Aput, Basap, Boh, Bukat, Bukitan, Busang, Kelai, Lisum, Lugat, Ot, and Penyabong
(Kennedy 1943[1935]).
Based on prolonged anthropological field research, Rodney Needham’s findings
on the distinction between the Penan and Punan hunting-gathering peoples led
to an awareness of the problematic use of the term Punan to denote all hunter-
gatherers in Borneo. Needham argued that it was misleading to use the term
Punan in the overarching manner in which it had been popularly applied (1954b,
and 1955). He also remarked that there were distinctions even within the
category Penan (in this volume).
Needham was leading us on the right path and onto something important,
for, quite simply, he was giving the views held by hunter-gatherers themselves.
Needham’s further observation that there was also a distinction between the
Eastern and Western Penan, that they were different from the Punan, and that
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the settled Punan Bah, in turn, were unrelated to the nomadic Punan helped
clarify some of the inconsistent and muddled ways in which the category Punan
had been used. Needham demonstrated the cultural heterogeneity among
hunter-gatherers of Borneo (Hoffman 1983: 11). Yet, if one looks closely, this
heterogeneity can also be observed in the early reports of colonial officers, who
had used a myriad of terms for hunter-gatherers of the interior (see, for example,
the Sarawak Gazette, March, July, August, September, October, and November
1882, and July 1898).
More recently, Peter Brosius has agreed with Needham: ‘The inconsistent or
confused usage of the terms Penan and Punan continues in works by Hose and
McDougall (1912), Haddon (1901), Harrisson (1950), Urquhart (1951b), Hoffman
(1986), and others. Needham’s 1954 [1954b] article resolved this issue, and his
conclusions were further affirmed by Nicolaisen (1976 [1976b]: 43)’ (Brosius
1992a: 55).
I wish to explore the collective concept Punan a little further by drawing on
my own observations in relation to the two points raised by Hoffman (1983, 1986),
which unfortunately he himself later contradicts; first, that the term ‘Punan’ is a
term of reference applied to nomads by sedentary peoples, rather than an actual
label of identity used by the nomads themselves, and secondly, that the term ‘Punan’
is concerned with describing certain locational and behavioural characteristics
rather than assumed ethnic origins. It is also interesting to note from Brosius’
own observations that the words Penan and Punan are used by Kayan, Kenyah,
Penan, and others to include non-Penan and non-Punan groups such as Bhuket,
Sihan, Lisum, Baketan, and even the Philippine Negritos and the American Indians
(Brosius 1988a; 1992a: 58).
Here we can see that the words ‘Penan and Punan’ are an all-embracing term
for particular ways of life and certain behavioural characteristics, which was
initially used by nomads’ sedentary neighbours, but eventually adopted by the
hunter-gatherers themselves. I am not denying the existence of the ethnonym,
Punan, for these terms have been internalised by some of the hunter-gatherer
groups. Needham (in this volume) has clarified for us the groups that belong to
the category ‘Penan’, but that of ‘Punan’ is considerably more problematic if used
as a collective identity label for hunter-gatherers. It is obvious that the contexts in
which the term ‘Punan’ is used are rather confusing. What both hunter-gatherers
and sedentary farmers are expressing through the term ‘Punan’ is the commonality
of life ways and attitudes shared by all hunter-gatherers. Punan’s sedentary
neighbours are also making a statement about the flexibility prevalent in hunter-
gatherer culture through the use of the term ‘Punan’, besides it being used as a
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stereotype for all hunter-gatherers. The term also changes in meaning depending on
the context of usage. My discussions on this matter with sedentary agriculturalists
such as the Kayan, Kenyah, and Malays led to very interesting findings. The word
‘Punan’ may have different meanings in the different contexts in which it is used:
1) as a term for hunter-gatherers whose specific identity is not known;
2) as an all-embracing label of reference for hunter-gatherers;
3) as a referent for individuals who show particular types of behavioural char-
acteristics, such as extreme generosity, demand-sharing, sago-eating, and low
social position; in this connection the term ‘Punan’ can be used both for
hunter-gatherers and even sedentary people who show such traits; and
4) as a confirmatory term for hunter-gatherers who call themselves ‘Punan’, such
as the Punan Busang.
In my discussions with hunter-gatherer communities, e.g., Bhuket, Lisum,
Sihan, Baketan, Kereho, and Hovongan (Bungan), it appears that they say that
they are not ‘Punan’ if the term refers to ethnic origin or comprises a label of
identity. They do not want to be called ‘Punan’, for they insist that they have their
own identity. Furthermore, they asserted that the term ‘Punan’ could also be used
in a derogatory manner. The Kereho and the Hovongan usually carry the label
‘Punan’, for they are on the Kalimantan side of Borneo, and government has always
insisted on the usage of the term ‘Punan’ for administrative purposes. The Kereho
and Hovongan only used the term ‘Punan’ when they had to elaborate further their
identity, which most researchers or government officers seek in their desire to
classify; in this sense, they have internalised the label of identification, and use it if
asked by an anthropologist or a government officer to identify themselves.
In my conversations with the Bhuket in West Kalimantan, they referred to
these two groups as ‘Kereho’ and ‘Bungan’ and, what is more, these two latter
groups insisted that the Bhuket were not ‘Punan’. During my fieldwork, the only
group of hunter-gatherers I encountered that called itself ‘Punan’ was the Punan
Busang, and I am aware that there are other hunter-gatherer groups who refer to
themselves as Punan. The time has come for anthropologists to take into account
the views of the hunter-gatherers themselves, for it has to do with the most basic
issue for them, that of their identity. If most of the hunting-gathering peoples
that we have included in the category ‘Punan’ do not want to be classified as
such, then we should respect their wishes and not impose it as an ethnic indicator
or as a cultural category. However, if certain groups in Kalimantan and Sarawak
have internalised the term ‘Punan’, and if they have come to accept it as an ethnic
label for themselves, then it seems permissible for these groups to be referred to
as such.
106
The commonality in life ways and attitudes among hunter-gatherer groups is

not only expressed by their sedentary neighbours, anthropologists, and government
administrators, but it is also recognised by hunter-gatherer groups themselves.
But the question remains: Should this commonality in social life be given the label
‘Punan’ and used as an all-embracing cultural or ethnic category? In my view, it
should not, and certainly the Bhuket, though they are hunter-gatherers, are not
Punan, and do not wish to be so designated.
CONCLUSION
In conclusion, we have to move backward and forward between past and present,
along a scale that moves from the individual, the band, and the ethnic group, to
show the dynamic nature of identity formation and identification of forest nomads.
The awareness of belonging to a group (suku) that we would call ‘ethnic group’ is a
recent phenomenon among hunter-gatherer communities. Furthermore, hunter-
gatherers have their own history and identity, which establish their relationships
and their variability to one another in the Bornean ethnographic landscape. It
would impede our understanding of the identity formation of forest nomads if
we ignore this emerging state of diversity and flux by accepting the categorisation
of Bornean forest nomads as Punan. There is much diversity within the hunter-
gatherer communities in Borneo, although commonality in life ways can also be
observed. This brief excursion into the past, current, and local discourses over
matters of identity and identification of hunter-gatherers is to illustrate the need
for caution in formulating or accepting generalisations about people’s identity
without taking into consideration the voices of the very people who are being
discussed. Equivalent caution is also necessary for anthropologists doing such
work, because our writings do sometimes influence those who have power to
categorise and administer.
All hunter-gatherer societies, past, present, and future, are profoundly affected
by their integration into much larger-scale systems, which in most cases have
denied them a unique history of their own. Identity and identification can be
seen as interactive, and need to be placed within a historical context. Besides
that, the unitary concept of Punan may not be a credible anthropological
category, nor a useful category for theoretical purposes. Moreover, such
categorisation does not help hunter-gatherers themselves to produce a real
future, with the potential to be anything but a continuation of the past or
present instance.
107
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Most of the ethnographic data used in this paper were collected during my Ph.D.
fieldwork in Sarawak and West Kalimantan from October 1992 to November
1993 and from April to May 1994. Because of the Bakun Dam Project, the
Bhuket of Long Ayak have been resettled recently at Sungai Asap (Sungai
Koyan), further down the Balui River and closer to Belaga town. The censuses
for Long Ayak and the West Kalimantan settlements were taken in 1993 and
1994, respectively; data on Naha Tivab were collected in West Kalimantan from
residents of that settlement.
NOTES
1. The Menyimbung River is also known as Menyivung by the Bhuket, and today it is
called Mengiong by the Iban.
2. The Seru lived along the Krian River and had put up a hard fight against Iban
encroachment into their territory (Pollard and Banks 1935: 406). Charles Brooke (1866,
ii: 335) pronounced them all but extinct in the mid-nineteenth century, with only 30
or 40 doors left, in small communities. Deshon (Sarawak Gazette, 1 November 1882)
reported the existence of one village of around 12 doors near Kabong, on the Kalaka
River. Bailey (1901: 48) reported that, after the epidemic of cholera, they were reduced
to one village of 18 men, 11 women, and four children. The last Seru (Sru) died in 1949,
but many of the Malays of the Krian are of Seru stock (Pringle 1970: 40). However,
Chin (1980: 21) has stated that the last individual claiming Seru identity died in 1954.
3. F. de Rozario served in the Brooke government from 1864 to 1911. For more than 30
years, he was in sole charge of the upper Rejang station, first located at Nanga Balleh,
and later at Kapit. He was very knowledgeable about upper Rejang ethnography and
wrote extremely colourful reports (Runciman 1960: 204; Pringle 1970: 40; see also
his obituary in the Sarawak Gazette, 2 January 1925: 856; and for an example of his
knowledge of the upriver tribes, his brief 1901 text on ‘The Sru Dyaks’ in Richards
1963). A volume of letters from officers at Kapit, covering the period 1879 to 1892,
is preserved in the Sarawak Archives. It includes many letters from De Rozario and
graphically illustrates the character of his administration (Pringle 1970: 257n).
4. Information collected from the last surviving Seru and now on file in the Sarawak
Museum indicates that (1) the Seru did not originally call themselves Seru; the name
was imposed by early Brooke officers; (2) the Seru believed that they were related to
other peoples of the Melanau family in the lower Rejang, including the Beliun and
Sagalang; and (3) they claimed an original homeland in the Kapuas where most Bhuket
have lived since the Iban migrations drove them out of the Balleh (Pringle 1970: 40n).
5. A Seru wordlist is given by D.J.S. Bailey (in Richards 1963: 334–340) and a Bhuket
wordlist by Urquhart (1955: 193–204).
6. Kaboy (1969) reported that there were no living people claiming descent from the Bliun
in the late 1960s.
108
7. The Seduan, Segalang, Banyok, and Bliun were related, and were living close, to the
Melanau, by whom they were eventually absorbed. The Segalang were the followers and
allies of Serif Massahore, the major enemy of the Sarawak regime, who was plotting to
overthrow James Brooke (see Baring-Gould and Bampfylde 1909: 223–224, 265).
8. According to Low, the Lisum were related to the Sihan and Lugat (Sarawak Gazette, 1
Nov. 1882: 96). The Lisum and Sihan claim the Rejang region as their homeland (see
Sandin 1985). In the Apo Kayan, the Lisum are known as Punan Lisum (Elshout 1926:
243).
9. The Lugat, like the Baketan, allied themselves with the Iban.
10. De Rozario’s categorisation is based on linguistic similarity between these groups. In
certain cases, a linguistic relationship can be demonstrated (e.g., between Seru and
Bhuket, and between Lisum and Bhuket); in others, given the lack of data, I would not
wish to speculate about linguistic or, indeed, broad cultural relationships.
11. The Balleh was inhabited by Baketan and Bhuket (Brooke 1866, ii: 250; Sarawak
Gazette, 1 November 1882: 96, and September 1901: 175). The Sihan, Lugat, and
Punan also lived in the Balleh (see Sarawak Gazette, 1 November 1882: 11; and also
Mr. Low’s January 1884 Diary, in the Sarawak Gazette, 2 June 1884). Freeman details
the history of Iban occupation of the Balleh region (1955b: 11–20). Sandin (1967b) has
documented the migrations of the Baketan.
12. The Iban attack on the Lisum, the Kayan of Uma Belor and Kenyah of Uma Kelap, and
the Bhuket at Naha Nyabong was around 1900, for the Sarawak Gazette (1 December
1900: 227) reported the murder of three Dayak by Lisum. After this incident, the Lisum
were attacked several times by the Iban for revenge against these murders (see Elshout
1926: 243–244, Rousseau 1990: 223).
13. Ricketts has briefly discussed Iban-Bukitan relations (Sarawak Gazette, 1 July 1898:
138–139). The Bukitan were driven out of the Balleh, and were the victims of both the
Iban and the Kayan (Sarawak Gazette, 1 July 1882: 50–54; 1 August 1882: 62–65; 1
September 1882: 72–73; 1 October 1882: 81–83; and 1 November 1882: 93–96). By
the efforts of the Brooke Raj, they were moved out of the Balleh to live apart from the
Iban (Sarawak Gazette, 23 May 1879).
109
Chapter 5
THE PUNAN FROM THE TUBU’ RIVER,

EAST KALIMANTAN : A NATIVE VOICE
ON PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE
CIRCUMSTANCES
By K.A. Klimut and Rajindra K. Puri
Abstract: R.K. Puri comments on the thoughts and experiences of K.A. Klimut, a
Punan elder from the Menabur River, a tributary of the Tubu’, in what is now the
Malinau Regency of north-eastern Kalimantan. Klimut likens the situation of his
people to that of the Australian Aborigines and the Kurds. In a compelling statement,
Klimut addresses Punan’s central dilemma, outlining the advantages and disadvan-
tages of relocating, with special regard to the cultural practice of sharing, and won-
dering whether or not ‘our lives will be finished’.
INTRODUCTION
The following essay on the Punan Tubu expresses the thoughts and experiences
of Klimut, a Punan elder born in 1949 in the village of Menabur Besar on the
Menabur River, a tributary of the Tubu’ River, in what is now the Malinau
Regency of northern East Kalimantan (see Map 5.1). He currently lives with
other Punan Tubu’ in a resettlement village known as Respen Sembuak, located
across the Sesayap River from the town of Malinau.1 Klimut was once an
110
The Punan from the Tubu’ River, East Kalimantan
Map 5.1. Punan Tubu’ Settlements
administrative secretary of his village, but the pay was so poor and the job so
stressful that he resigned long ago and returned to the life of a part-time farmer
and forest product collector. He is, however, still an unofficial community leader,
participating in all aspects of running the Respen village, settling disputes and
treating sick people. His fluency in Indonesian and local languages, his friendly
and gregarious nature, and his perceptive and often insightful understanding
of Western ways and work habits make him an excellent resource for visitors
coming to the area. Thus, he often accompanies scientific expeditions in the area,
and most recently has worked with WWF Indonesia, the Wildlife Conservation
Society, and the Center for International Forestry Research, on surveys and
forest ecology studies in the district. He has been my research assistant on two
projects (Puri 1998a, 2000).
During the military confrontation with Malaysia in the early 1960s, Klimut left
school and joined the Army as a teenager, received training in Balikpapan, and was
stationed on the Kerayan Plateau to patrol the border with Sarawak. He managed
to work as a medical assistant to army doctors, both in the field and in Balikpapan.
111
He has taken that training and combined it with a traditional education in medicinal
plants and healing and become well known among the Punan and other local
communities as a healer/doctor. Klimut has a home garden full of medicinal and
other plants, many of which he has brought home from his travels in Kalimantan
and Malaysia. With boundless energy and good humour, he is an almost unstoppable
conversationalist, joker, and storyteller. Often cynical, sharp tongued, and holding
no punches, Klimut will publicly debate and critique all issues, from local politics
and economics to international current events and the processes of globalisation.
He likens the situation of his people to that of the Australian Aborigines and the
Kurds.
Having known and worked with Klimut since 1997, I am well aware of the
situation his people face as the new millennium dawns. When asked to contribute
something to this volume, which examines the issues and condition of Punan/
Penan in the new century, I immediately knew that Klimut would have to lead this
discussion, and I am grateful that he took up the challenge with such enthusiasm,
twice! Unsatisfied with his first essay, written in September 1999, he sat back in
November and wrote a second, more dramatic one. Both are included here.
I should also note that despite Klimut’s unique status and abilities as a local ‘cultural
broker’, he articulates views that are quite commonly heard and discussed among
all Punan in the area, albeit he tends to be fearlessly blunt and unusually forward
in expressing his views. Knowing that his message is for outsiders, he wrote in
Bahasa Indonesia, which has become the lingua franca among the many ethnic
groups of the Respen village and Malinau town, at the expense of local Punan
languages. One of Klimut’s fears is that his children will never be fluent in Punan,
since instruction in the schools is in Bahasa Indonesia.
Part I begins much as any ethnography would, setting the geographical and
anthropological context. He then introduces aspects of the traditional Punan way of
life, including economics, leadership, marriage, and cultural values or norms.2 The
main subject of his writing, though, is the positive and negative effects of missionaries,
local politics, and the migration of the Punan Tubu’ to the lowlands. Given the
recent scholarly interest in the origins of foragers in Borneo, and the consequent
focus on the ideology of nomads and nomadism (as an unchanging core significantly
different from that of farming societies),3 it is interesting that Klimut himself is most
concerned with changes in the value of sharing, which he seems to imply is a defining
characteristic of being Punan. Finally in the first part, Klimut describes, and indeed
worries over, the essential Punan dilemma of the day: whether to stay in the
resettlement villages or return to their traditional lands. As is the case with all
dilemmas, neither choice looks good for the Punan from his point of view.
112
Part II expands on the first writing in bolder, passionate, and more personal
prose. It was written after the election of the new Indonesian president and vice-
president and, in my opinion, reflects the new found confidence among
Indonesians everywhere to address past and present problems with a fearlessness
unimaginable only a few years ago. In emotional and compelling statements,
Klimut again discusses the central dilemma of the Punan, outlining the pros and
cons of moving, especially with regard to the cultural practice of sharing, and
wondering whether or not ‘our lives will be finished’. Klimut is fond of throwing
up his arms in frustration and then tapping his forehead in sad resignation,
claiming he is habis pikiran, ‘out of ideas’, for solving this dilemma. Yet in
these statements he outlines clearly what the tradeoffs appear to be, and thereby
lays an essential foundation for a needed dialogue among his people, and
between themselves and their neighbours, their local and national governments,
and the international community of scientists, development policy makers, and
nongovernmental organisations, who are implicated, in one way or another, in
the fate of the Punan.
Having provided this brief introduction, as well as copious footnotes, to
provide background information and some help in interpretation, I have chosen
to refrain from intellectualising Klimut’s statement in terms of wider debates in
the anthropological literature on cultural brokers or the ‘native voice’. While
those certainly are interesting debates, their inclusion here would distract from
the message that Klimut is trying to get across. Sometimes we just need to listen
to what our informants are trying to tell us, rather than thinking of everything
they say in terms of theory.
THE SITUATION OF THE PUNAN OF THE TUBU’ RIVER.

PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE
By K.A. Klimut
PART I: SEPTEMBER 19994

Background
The area of the province of East Kalimantan is quite large, 21,144,000 ha, which
consists of 20,039,500 ha of land and 1,104,500 ha of lakes and rivers. The area
of East Kalimantan forms one of the main points of entry for development in
Eastern Indonesia. The area is known as the country’s timber supply, and has
hundreds of rivers that provide the main means of transporting [timber out of
113
the region], apart from transporting them over land.5 The Mahakam River is the
longest river in East Kalimantan.
The province of East Kalimantan is located on the eastern part of the island of
Kalimantan and forms part of the border area with Malaysia, most specifically with
[the states of] Sabah and Sarawak. The province borders Malaysia [Sabah] to the
North, the Sulawesi Sea and the Makassar Straits to the East; South Kalimantan to
the South; and West Kalimantan, Central Kalimantan, and Malaysia [Sarawak] to
the West [see Map 5.1].
East Kalimantan is not free of mountains, and mountainous terrain is found in
all regencies. There are about thirteen mountains; the highest in East Kalimantan
is Mount Makita, with an altitude of about 2,987 m asl, which is located in the
Regency of Bulungan. There are as many as 17 lakes, which are all found in the
Regency of Kutai. Two among them are very large and are called Lake Jempang
and Lake Semayang, with areas of 13,000 and 15,000 ha, respectively.
The natural wealth includes mining products such as oil, gold, and coal. Other
products include rattan, timber for export, eaglewood,6 malam wood,7 cinnamon,
ginger, various kinds of medicinal plants, swiftlet nests,8 and apart from these there
are numerous other animal and plant products.
According to a [government] registration at the end of 1996, the population in
East Kalimantan was 2,187,356 people.9
The ethnic group Dayak in East Kalimantan consists of 12 smaller tribal groups,
which are Dayak Punan, Kenyah, Lundayeh, Benuaq, Tunjung, Bentian, Kayan,
Merap, Abai, Tegalan, Berusu, Oheng, Bahau Saq, Bahau Busang, and Modang;
whereas the Malay groups include the Tidung, Bulungan, Kutai, and Banjar.10
Immigrant groups include Javanese, Batak, Sundanese, Toraja, Buginese, Arabs
from the Middle East, Butonese, Madurese, Balinese, Chinese, and Europeans.
There are eight Daerah Tingkat II [kabupaten, or regency: second-level
administrative region],11 which are Kabupaten Bulungan, Kabupaten Berau,
Kabupaten Kutai, Kabupaten Pasir, Kota Administratif Bontang, Kota Administratif
Samarinda, Kotamadya Balikpapan, Kotamadya Tarakan.
In Bulungan Regency, there are 17 kecamatan [or districts; third-level administrative
region], which include Malinau and Mentarang.12 There are 59 villages in Malinau
District, which include 38 villages with a Punan population.13 In Mentarang District,
there are ten Punan villages. The total number of Punan villages in the whole of East
Kalimantan is 66.14
In the past, present, and in times to come, the Punan people find their livelihood
in swidden agriculture,15 gardening,16 and collecting forest products,17 but it is
possible that this may change and they may turn to mining for coal, gold, etc.
114
There are 7,000 Punan individuals living in East Kalimantan, according

to data gathered by the Yayasan Adat Punan in 1995.18 No data have been
collected on the number of Punan in Central and South Kalimantan, or in
Malaysia.19
Conditions of the Punan People before the 1970S

In the old days, the Punan people of the Tubu’ River used to live in groups on each
tributary of the Tubu’ River. To lead a group, a person was appointed who was
considered to be able in all matters, be they matters that involve the government
or those of the village or his particular group. Another prerequisite of a group
leader was that he could not be a descendant of a slave. This is understandable
since, at that time, a slave was often someone who had been captured in the course
of a headhunting raid, then possibly traded to another group, and then married
to someone of that group. The appointment of an able and courageous person
could sometimes have a boomerang effect [backlash], as it was self-sacrifice [for
that person to accept that function].20 A sacrifice, because in settling problems
with outside parties, for instance make peace and pay fines, then the group leader
is sent to pay the fine on behalf of the group. But conversely, he was the one to
decide on the fine to be paid [to him] if he had been slandered by a member of
his group or an outside party.
At that time [before the 1970s], customs and traditions were rather strong,
and many had to be followed by boys and girls. Among other things, children
were prohibited from opposing or speaking out against their parents using
language that might hurt their feelings; they could not eat bears, snakes, and
monkeys (for young girls); they were prohibited from eating burnt rice; and they
had to be quick when they were ordered by their parents to do something in a
hurry.21
The Present Situation of the Punan People, 1967–199922

The condition and the lifestyle of the Punan people during the years 1967–1999
was much the same as before, except concerning the unity of the group and
conditions in the leadership, changes were experienced in:
1. thinking patterns;
2. beliefs and convictions;
3. customs and traditions; and
4. settlement and housing.
115
In 1967–1968, suddenly, the whole area and the villages were visited by
missionaries who came mostly from the Putuk 23 and Lengilu’ people. In order to
convert the people [including the Punan] to the Gospel, they visited their houses
and swidden huts bringing posters showing people entering the fires of Hell, pictures
of the devil entering the heart of people who believed in evil spirits, bird omens, and
who used traditional medicines. Since that time, the Punan people no longer believe
in bird omens and traditional medicines. This movement was called KINGMI and
is called GKII nowadays.24 The same happened to customs and traditions. Before
the Christian faith entered, a wedding had to follow the following steps:
1. Mukum oroh, asking for the hand in marriage;
2. Peturui, the wedding candidates were given formal permission by their
parents to sleep together;
3. Pelulung, during this ceremony the marriage candidates were given permis-
sion by the parents of both sides to eat together in one place;
4. Niran, the ceremony whereby the girl was escorted by her parents to the
home of the parents of the boy. During all these steps, the parents of the
girl gave their consent, while the party of the boy contributed gifts in
the form of ancient [ceramic] jars, gongs, and even persons they had
captured during headhunting raids to become servants, to the parents of the
girl. But a wedding nowadays is a marriage ceremony in church.25
During the 1970s, coinciding with the missionary activities, the government
suggested, through the village heads of the whole Tubu’ River area, that the Punan
people move to town [i.e., Malinau], because the place they lived in was considered
by the government to be too isolated. At the very least, they had to move closer to
the district [capital]. In order to speed up the move, the government provided the
means for transport and provided land that had been prepared to establish a village
in town. They also offered assistance for the duration of one year once they had
settled in the town [district capital].
According to the government, the intention of the move was:
1. to make it easier for the people to be developed and assisted;

2. to make it easier for them to obtain medical care;
3. to provide the children with proper education;
4. to teach them how to live as townspeople; and
5. to settle permanently and to abandon their nomadic way of life.
After having heard the sweet suggestions made by the government, there was a
major migration from the Tubu’ River to the capital of the district [Malinau] and
the surrounding area. The locations that had been prepared by the government
were located in Sungai Sembuak, Lubuk Manis, Long Loreh, and Paking.
116
In Sembuak there were 13 villages, in Lubuk Manis four, in Long Loreh five, and
there were four villages in Paking, in Mentarang District. After having lived in
town for a few years, people began feeling that they could not adjust, because the
land that had been given to them by the government was not suitable for gardening,
because it was land within the [coastal] tidal zone.26 Also the water they were
supposed to drink was very dirty and the forests and rivers for hunting and catching
fish were very far away and necessitated the use of motor boats. Every necessity of
life required money. This was vastly different from the villages they had moved
from, where everything was nearby and did not require money. The land that they
had was sufficiently vast and suitable for cultivating rice and for gardening.
After having experienced the difficulties of living in town, the [people from the]
villages of Long Pada, Long Ranau, Long Nyau, Rian Tubu’, and Long Titi went
back to where they had come from and they settled there again from 1973–1974 up
to the present. Now they feel like a bird released from its cage; they live free and all
they need in life – especially their daily needs – can be met, and their land is large
enough to have swidden fields and gardens.
But they live in ignorance. Many school-aged children have never tasted
education and many children and elderly persons die because of epidemics,
because they do not get medical treatment from Mentarang District.27 Since this
situation has endured for such a long time, we may assume that they are being
punished by the government for returning to their land of origin and for not
having followed the wishes of the government that wanted to relocate them.
However, the reason why they do not get a primary school building and medical
treatment is only because their village is too isolated and is in an unfavourable
area. But, in fact, many people go back and forth from the district [capital] to
the villages and the other way around.
The Situation of the Punan People, Now and in the Future

The situation of the Punan people nowadays may be said to be better in
comparison with the past. Many Punan children are currently at school at
various levels of education from primary school to teacher’s college, although
not many get the opportunity to become a civil servant or a big businessman.
This is understandable because there is no capital and there are no sponsors.28
Punan people who have adjusted themselves to life in town have many skills:
agriculture, technical crafts [e.g., carpenter, smithy], and fishing and short-,
middle-, and long-term planning. At the moment, the Punan people have
managed to organise two festivals, in 1994 and 1998, and they also have a
foundation [YAP] that will become a centre of research. They are not lagging
117
behind [other groups] in entering politics. They also join seminars and receive
training inside the country and abroad.
What we know about politics at the moment is that Malinau District will
become a Regency, so we may expect the following to happen:
1. A tighter control [more constraints] over village heads for the villages in the
direct vicinity of Malinau [the regency capital];29
2. The regency capital is expected to expand, so villages that have no village
[land] map or authentic data [land certificate], such as Respen Sembuak and
Lubuk Manis, may be moved or transferred to other areas.30
If that happens, it is certain that the communities of Respen Sembuak and
Lubuk Manis, and the populations of other villages, will return to their original
area and villages on the Tubu’ River, just like the villages of [Long] Pada, [Long]
Nyau, [Long] Ranau, Rian Tubu’, and [Long] Titi.
PART II: NOVEMBER 12, 1999

The future of the Dayak Punan is worrying.
Education
In the first place, the Punan people are financially unable to pursue higher
education to enter teacher’s college or university.
Obstacles:
1. There is still favouritism based on ethnicity in Indonesian society.31 For
example: There was someone who took the test to become a civil servant.
This Punan person was asked if he had six million rupiah [roughly US$ 600].
The Punan person said to one of the members of the board: ‘If I had that
much money, sir, it would be better for me to use it as start-up capital, or to
open a shop!’ ‘Then,’ said the board member, ‘it’s not possible,’ meaning that
the Punan man did not pass.
2. When the government asks for applications for candidates to the civil service,
members of the police force, members of the army, primary school teach-
ers, or teachers for junior high school, the information is intentionally not
passed on to the Punan people. Only after they have enough applicants, or
when the application time has passed, do they inform the village heads of the
Punan people. After a Punan person has sent in his application, he is told that
they already have enough and that he was too late to apply. That is the actual
situation we have experienced all along.
3. When children of our people are supposed to advance a grade in primary
school, junior high school, or senior high school, there are always objec-
tions made by their school teachers. Some of them say, ‘You have not yet
paid money for your BP-3, OSIS, school fee (participation).’ So children are
118
reluctant to go to school. That is why, to this day, many Punan children

drop out of school.32
Punan People
The Punan people are just like the Aboriginal people in Australia or the Kurds
who live in Iraq or in Tehran. The behaviour of society towards them is the
same.33
This is what alarms the Punan people, and the future of our ethnic group. If we
study the history of Indonesia, it is the Dayak who are the original population of
East Kalimantan. The Dayak Punan are among them. But the conduct of other
people towards the Punan people is as I have sketched above.
Another example. There are companies [industries such as mining, logging] in
our area, but if we want to catch a ride in their vehicles, we have to pay the driver
and he charges from 10,000 to 20,000 Rp per person [US$ 1–2]. When in fact the
area in which these industries are working is our area, where we were born, the area
of our forefathers, from generation to generation until the present day. Where lies
the justice that the government propagandises to the people? Is this in accordance
with Pancasila, in which, if I am not mistaken, the first principle mentions [the
belief] in the one and only God?34
This is what worries the Punan: The future of their group.
Moreover, there is the national park;35 wherever there is a headwater area
[watershed], almost all of them have been included in the National Park, which
overlaps with our traditional lands. And I have not even mentioned the logging
concessions. Where else are we all supposed to go to find our food? The forests have
already been occupied by business concerns.
In fact, all products are there, for instance:
1. rattan is in the forest;

2. eaglewood is in the forest;
3. timber to make boards is in the forest;
4. damar resin is in the forest;36
5. hunting animals is done in the forest;
6. sago is in the forest;37
7. the fate of the Punan people is in the forest. Everything is in the forest.
Local investigations have been conducted [showing] that in each village, 70–75
per cent of the people are still dependent on forest products.38 They lack the skills
to work in a factory, let alone to work as civil servants, and there is nothing left for
them but to live a life of endless suffering.
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Even more so at present. Malinau District has officially become a regency

(Kabupaten Daerah Tingkat II Malinau). Well, we know what that means,
don’t we? Everything there will be reorganised and be put under new control. It
will start with the rice paddies, the swidden fields, the gardens, and the house
plots, all will require registration [a certificate]. All of which we do not have. All
the Punan people will be in trouble as a result. I mean, those Punan people who
live in Respen Sembuak are already thinking of moving back to the upper
reaches of the river, back to their original lands. If there is an exodus back
upriver, the situation will become even worse. If the government allows them to
do so, then there will be no problem, but if they do not allow it, our fate will
already be sealed; as in the expression nasi jadi bubur.39 What will become of
our life?40
For Dayak people in general, it is still the swidden fields, gardens, primary
and fallow forest lands, houses, rivers, graveyards, and mountains that yield
products [one’s livelihood]. We do not use papers [documents]. What we use are
signs. For instance, mountains, rivers, forks or confluences, and ridges,41 those
are the signs that we use to mark someone’s property. The confluence of two
rivers, or a mountain, are signs that can not be changed. That is why we Dayak
do not use documents. Documents may be changed by anyone wishing to do so.
But mountains, or rivers, or mountain peaks; who can change a mountain? Who
can change a river? That is why we Dayak use what has already been told above.
So, stories handed down from one generation to the next, that’s strong proof
for Dayak in general.42
The Past and Present Culture of the Punan People

Punan culture in the past. Punan used to live in harmony and peace and their
feeling of unity was very strong and could not be broken apart. One example is
a village when someone had caught an animal, a pig. The pig had to be divided
and shared among all members of the village. Not only the villagers, but also
people happening to visit had to be fed. This too was a form of unity [oneness].
If someone in the village died, each member of the village had to help and had to
give whatever they had, such as rice, sago, fish, even their own labour. They had
to give cloth or a machete to the grieving people. This was proof of their unity
[oneness]. If someone in their village got married, they had to help them with
whatever they had for instance a jar, a gong, valuable beads, cloth, and the like.
All this is called la’ lou (or tengunyun).43 If a person was in trouble, he had to be
helped. This is why, in general, we see that Dayak people are never rich, because
Dayak people share everything.
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The Punan People at Present

The Punan people of today are very different from those of the past. If a Punan
catches a pig or a fish, at best we will only see it, but one cannot ask for it
anymore. If you ask, he will not give you anything, except if you pay for it. That
means that we have to spend our own money, when, as I said before, there used
to be a situation of mutual sharing. This is the difference between the Punan
people of the past and the Punan today. The difference is immense. Many Punan
have rubbed shoulders with town people, who do not have a culture of sharing
and mutual help.44 This [adopting the townsfolk’s culture] is the mistake45 often
made by Punan, whereas in fact it is they who have a culture of mutual help.46
I myself do not know how to address this situation and this is my concern about
the Punan people.
APPENDIX : K.A. KLIMUT’S ORIGINAL TEXT

Keadaan suku Punan Sungai Tubu’, Kalimantan Timur:
Dulu, Sekarang, dan di Masa Depan
K.A. Klimut
[PART I: SEPTEMBER 1999]
Latar Belakang
Wilayah Propinsi Kalimantan Timur yang cukup luas, yakni 21.144.000 hektar
yang terdiri dari 20.039.500 hektar daratan dan 1.104.500 hektar perairan.
Daerah Kalimantan Timur merupakan salah satu pintu gerbang pembangunan
di wilayah Indonesia bagian Timur. Daerah yang dikenal sebagai gudang kayu
ini mempunyai ratusan sungai sebagai sarana angkutan di samping angkutan
darat yaitu sungai Mahakam yang terpanjang di Kalimantan Timur.
Propinsi Kalimantan Timur terletak paling Timur Pulau Kalimantan dan
sekaligus merupakan wilayah perbatasan dengan Negara Malaysia khususnya
Negara Sabah dan Sarawak. Tepatnya propinsi ini berbatasan langsung: sebelah
utara dengan Negara Malaysia, sebelah timur dengan Laut Sulawesi dan selat
Makassar, sebelah selatan dengan Kalimantan Selatan, dan sebelah barat dengan
Kalimantan Barat, Kalimantan Tengah dan Malaysia.
Daratan Kalimantan Timur tidak terlepas dari gunung dan pegunungan yang
terdapat hampir di seluruh kabupaten, yaitu ada sekitar 13 gunung. Gunung yang
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paling tinggi di Kalimantan Timur yaitu Gunung Makita dengan ketinggian

sekitar 2.987 meter yang terletak di Kabupaten Bulungan. Sedang untuk danau yg
keseluruhannya berjumlah 17 buah semuanya di Kabupaten Kutai. Dua buah di
antara danau-danau itu yang luas adalah danau Jempang, Semayang dengan luas
masing-masing 13.000 hektar dan 15.000 hektar.
Kekayaan alam terdiri dari bahan tambang seperti minyak bumi, emas dan
batu bara. Hasil lainnya rotan, kayu expot, kayu gaharu, kayu malam, kayu manis,
gember, obat-obatan, sarang burung walet, selain itu terdapat pula keanekaragaman
hayati (flora dan fauna).
Jumlah penduduk Kalimantan Timur menurut registrasi akhir tahun 1996
adalah 2.187.356 jiwa.
Suku Dayak Kalimantan Timur terdiri dari 12 anak suku yaitu: Suku
Dayak Punan, Kenyah, Lundayeh, Benuaq, Tunjung, Bentian, Kayan, Merap, Abai,
Tegalan, Brusu, Oheng, Bahau Saq, Bahau Busang, dan Modang. Sedangkan Suku
bangsa Melayu yaitu: Tidung Bulungan, Kutai dan Banjar. Suku pendatang adalah:
Jawa, Batak, Sunda, Toraja, Bugis, Arab Timur, Buton, Madura, Bali, Cina, Eropa.
Di wilayah Propinsi Kalimantan Timur terdapat 8 Daerah Tingkat II yaitu:
Kabupaten Bulungan, Kabupaten Berau, Kabupaten Kutai, Kabupaten Pasir, Kota
Administratif Bontang, Kota Administratif Samarinda, Kotamadya Balikpapan,
Kotamadya Tarakan.
Di wilayah Kabupaten Bulungan terdapat 17 kecamatan di antaranya adalah
Kecamatan Malinau dan Kecamatan Mentarang. Di wilayah Adminstrasi
Kecamatan Malinau terdapat 59 desa, di dalamnya terdapat 38 desa Suku Punan,
di Kecamatan Mentarang terdapat 10 desa Punan. Sedangkan jumlah desa Punan
secara keseluruhan di Kalimantan Timur berjumlah 66 desa.
Mata pencarian masyarakat Punan dari dulu, sekarang bahkan di masa yang
akan datang selain berladang, berkebun seperti mencari hasil hutan kemungkinan
juga beralih ke hasil barang tambang berupa batu bara, emas dll.
Menurut catatan yang telah didata oleh Yayasan Adat Punan pada tahun 1995
jumlah jiwa Suku Punan di Kalimantan Timur adalah 7000 jiwa. Untuk Suku
Punan yg terdapat di Kalimantan Tengah, Kalimantan Selatan dan di Malaysia
jumlah penduduknya belum didatakan.
Keadaan Suku Punan dulu sebelum Th. 1970-an

Suku Punan Sungai Tubu’ zaman dulu hidup mengelompok pada setiap batang
sungai di Sungai Tubu’. Untuk memimpin sebuah kelompok diangkat atau
ditunjuklah seorang yang dianggap mampu dalam segala hal baik itu urusan
yang menyangkut pemerintah maupun yang di dalam desa atau kelompoknya
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sendiri. Persyaratan lain dari pada Ketua Kelompok adalah orang yang tidak
terkait keturunan budak. Dapat dipahami karena pada zaman itu, ada saja
orang yang ditawan waktu mengayau dan diperjualbelikan kepada kelompok
lain lalu dikawinkan dengan sesamanya. Pengangkatan seorang cakap dan
berani itu kadang-kadang menjadi bumerang, dan menjadi tumbal. Dikatakan
menjadi tumbal, bila ada urusan dengan pihak lain, contohnya dalam membuat
perdamaian dan membayar denda, maka Ketua Kelompok diutus dan membayar
denda atas nama anggota kelompok. Dan sebaliknya bila Ketua Kelompok
mendapat fitnah dari anggota atau pihak lain maka segala keputusan dan besar
denda ditentukan oleh Ketua Kelompok itu sendiri. Adat dan kebiasaan pada
saat itu cukup kuat dan banyak dipatuhi oleh pemuda/pemudi. Di antaranya
pemuda/pemudi dilarang melawan orang tua dengan kata-kata apa pun yang
menyinggung perasaan orang tua, dilarang makan binatang beruang, ular,
monyet bagi pemudi, dilarang makan kerak nasi, tidak lambat bila disuruh
orang tua dalam keadaan cepat.
Keadaan Suku Punan Sekarang, 1967–1999

Keadaan/gaya hidup Suku Punan dari tahun 1967–1999 ini masih tetap
terutama yang menyangkut keutuhan kelompok dan persyaratan pimpinan
yang mengalami perubahan adalah:
1. pola berpikir
2. kepercayaan/keyakinan
3. adat/kebiasaan
4. tempat berdomisili
Pada tahun 1967–1968 secara serentak di seluruh daerah/desa suku Punan

dimasuki oleh pekabaran Injil yang kebanyakan dari Suku Putuk atau Suku Lengilu’.
Untuk meyakinkan masyarakat tentang Injil, mereka mendatangkan ke rumah-
rumah dan pondok di ladang sambil membawa gambar/poster orang-orang yang
masuk api neraka, gambar setan yang merasuk hati manusia yang percaya kepada
roh-roh jahat, bunyi burung dan memakai obat-obat tradisional. Maka sejak itu
masyarakat Suku Punan tidak percaya lagi dengan bunyi burung-burung, obat
tradisional.
Aliran ini disebut Kingmi atau yang disebut saat ini GKII. Demikian pula
mengenai adat/kebiasaan, dalam perkawinan sebelum Injil masuk, maka acara
perkawinan pada Suku Punan melalui jenjang: (1) Melamar, mukum oroh,
(2) Peturui, kedua calon suami-istri direstui oleh orang tua untuk tidur bersama,
(3) Pelulung, dalam acara ini kedua belah pihak orang tua merestui kedua calon
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suami-istri makan bersama di dalam satu tempat, (4) Acara Niran acara ini adalah
acara mengantar perempuan ke tempat orang tua pihak laki. Untuk semua tahap
itu dapat restu dari orang tua pihak perempuan, maka pihak laki harus memberi
barang-barang berupa tempayan lama, gong bahkan menyerah manusia yang
ditangkap sebagai tawanan mengayau kepada pihak perempuan sebagai pembantu.
Tetapi cara perkawinan sekarang adalah menikah di Gereja.
Pada tahun 1970-an bertepatan dengan pekabaran Injil itu Pemerintah melalui
kepala-kepala desa di seluruh Sungai Tubu’ menyarankan agar masyarakat Suku
Punan pindah ke kota, karena daerah yang didiami masyarakat itu menurut
Pemerintah dianggap terpencil. Paling tidak harus mendekati kecamatan. Untuk
kelancaran proses perpindahan pemerintah menyedia sarana/prasarana transport
dan lahan yang siap menampung penduduk desa itu di kota dan memberi bantuan
satu tahun setelah berada di kota kecamatan.
Maksud/tujuan perpindahan itu menurut Pemerintah adalah:
1. masyarakat mudah dibina dan dibantu.
2. mudah mendapat pelayanan pengobatan.
3. anak-anak dapat sekolah dengan baik.
4. belajar hidup seperti orang kota.
5. hidup menetap tidak perpindah-pindah.
Setelah mendengar saran-saran Pemerintah yang manis itu akhirnya terjadi

perpindahan besar-besaran dari Sungai Tubu’ ke Kecamatan dan mendekat
kecamatan. Lokasi yang disiapkan oleh Pemerintah adalah di Sungai Sembuak,
Lubuk Manis, Long Loreh, Paking. Di Sembuak terdapat 13 desa, 4 desa di
Lubuk Manis, 5 desa di Long Loreh, dan 4 desa di Paking Kecamatan Mentarang.
Setelah beberapa tahun hidup di kota, timbul rasa tidak dapat menyesuaikan
diri, karena lahan yang disiapkan oleh Pemerintah tidak cocok untuk berkebun
disebabkan lahan itu adalah lahan pasang surut. Selain itu air yang diminum
sangat kotor, hutan/sungai untuk berburu dan mencari ikan sangat jauh dan
memerlu perahu bermesin. Seluruh kebutuhan hidup memerlu uang. Berbeda
halnya dengan desa asal, semua serba dekat dan tidak memerlu uang. Lahan
cukup luas dan cocok untuk berkebun dan berladang. Setelah mengalami
kesulitan hidup di kota, akhirnya Desa Long Pada, Ranau, Nyau, Rian Tubu’,
Long Titi kembali ke tempat semula dan menetap di sana tepatnya tahun
1973/1974 sampai saat ini. Sekarang mereka ibarat burung lepas dari sangkar,
hidup bebas semua keperluan hidup dapat terpenuhi khususnya kebutuhan
sehari-hari, lahan cukup luas bebas untuk berladang dan berkebun.
Tetapi mereka hidup di dalam kebodohan, banyak anak-anak usia sekolah tidak
pernah mengecap bangku pendidikan, banyak anak-anak dan orang tua meninggal
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dunia disebabkan wabah penyakit karena tidak mendapat pelayanan kesehatan dari
Kecamatan Mentarang. Dalam kurun waktu yang lama seperti ini dapat saja kita
mempunyai dugaan bahwa mereka itu mendapat hukuman dari pihak Pemerintah
sebab mereka kembali ke daerah asal dan tidak memenuhi keinginan Pemerintah
yang ingin meng-relokasikan mereka. Tetapi alasan mengapa mereka tidak mendapat
bangunan gedung SD dan memberi pelayanan medis di sana hanya semata-mata
karena desa itu terpencil dan bermedan buruk. Tetapi dalam kenyataanya banyak
saja masyarakat yang berlalu lalang dari kecamatan ke desa itu dan sebaliknya.
Keadaan Suku Punan sekarang dan di masa

yang akan datang
Keadaan Suku Punan sekarang dapat dikatakan lebih baik dibanding dari pada
sebelumnya, banyak anak-anak Punan yang sedang belajar di berbagai jenjang
pendidikan dari SD s/d Perguruan Tinggi, tetapi tidak banyak mendapat
peluang menjadi Pegawai Negeri dan menjadi seorang pengusaha besar. Hal itu
dapat dimaklum karena tidak ada modal dan sponsor. Suku Punan yang sudah
beradaptasi di kota memiliki banyak keterampilan yaitu: bidang pertanian,
pertukangan dan nelayan serta perencanaan jangka pendek, menengah dan
jangka panjang. Suku Punan saat ini telah mampu mengadakan festival dua kali
yaitu pada tahun 1994 dan tahun 1998 dan telah pula memiliki sebuah yayasan
yang nantinya menjadi pusat penelitian, juga tidak ketinggalan ikut bertarung
dalam dunia politik, serta ikut seminar dan pelatihan-pelatihan di dalam dan di
luar Negeri. Pengetahuan yang diperoleh dari dunia politik saat ini khususnya
Kecamatan Malinau yang akan dijadikan Kabupaten, maka dapat dibayangkan
akan terjadi hal-hal sebagai berikut:
1. penciutan Kepala Desa bagi desa yang terdekat di Kabupaten Malinau.
2. dengan adanya perluasan kabupaten, maka desa-desa yang tidak memiliki
peta desa dan data-data yang otentik seperti Respen Sembuak dan Lubuk
Manis ada kemungkinan digeser/dipindahkan ke lokasi yang lain.
Jika demikian halnya dapat dipastikan bahwa masyarakat desa Respen Sembuak
dan Lubuk Manis serta masyarakat desa lainnya akan kembali ke daerah/desa asal
di Sungai Tubu’, seperti desa Pada, Nyau, Ranau, Rian Tubu’, Titi.
[PART II. NOVEMBER 1999]
Masa Depan Dayak Punan Dikhawatirkan

Pertama-tama, orang Punan tidak mampu menerobos jalannya sekolah.
Supaya bisa sekolah di perguruan tinggi atau bisa kuliah.
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Halangan
1. Adalah sistim-sistim suku masih ada di kalangan masyarakat Indonesia.
Contoh ada yang ikut tes pegawai katanya, salah satu orang Punan, maka
ditanyalah dia apakah kau ada uang enam juta rupiah (Rp. 6.000.000). Lalu
orang Punan itu menjawab katanya kalau saya punya uang sebanyak itu pak?
Lebih baik saya gunakan untuk modal kerja atau saya bertoko, katanya pada
salah satu dari panitia penerima calon pegawai negeri itu. Kalau begitu kata
si panitia itu, tidak bisa. Artinya tidak bisa lulus.
2. Kalau Pemerintah minta calon Pegawai Negeri atau calon anggota polisi, atau
calon anggota Tentara, atau calon guru SD atau calon guru SMP. Sengaja
tidak diinformasikan pada orang Punan. Setelah pendaftaran sudah penuh
atau cukup, baru dikasih tahu pada Kades orang Punan. Setelah orang Punan
ikut mendaftarkan diri dikatakan sudah penuh, kamu terlambat mendaftar
katanya. Itulah kenyataan yang kita alami selama ini.
3. Bila anak-anak orang kita kalau naikkan kelas di sekolah SD, SMP, SMA,
SMU selalu dapat halangan dari guru kelasnya. Ada yang bilang kamu
belum bayar uang BP-3, uang OSIS, uang Bangku (partisipasi) katanya. Jadi
anak-anak itu malas sekolah. Makanya banyak anak-anak orang Punan yang
putus sekolah sampai hari ini.
Suku Punan
Sama dengan Suku aborigin yang ada di Negara Australia Suku Punan sama
dengan Suku Kurdi yang ada di Negara Iraq atau yang ada di Teheran. Perilaku
orang-orang terhadap tiga suku ini tidak ada bedanya, sama. Inilah yang
dikhawatirkan orang-orang Punan, masa depannya suku ini. Kalau kita telusuri
Sejarah Indonesia Dayaklah orang-orang yang penduduk aslinya Kalimantan
Timur. Salah satu adalah Dayak Punan tadi itu. Tapi perilaku orang-orang
terhadap Suku Punan tersebut seperti apa yang saya paparkan di atas itu tadi.
Lagi satu contoh. Ada perusahaan di daerah kami kalau mau ikut kendaraannya
perusahaan itu harus membayar sewa kendaraan itu pada sopirnya. Sebanyak yang
diminta Rp. 10.000 s/d Rp. 20.000 per orang. Padahal daerah yang perusahaan
kelola itu adalah daerah kami tempat tumpah darah kami, tempat nenek moyang
kami, silih berganti sampai ke kami ini. Di manalah letak keadilan yang digembar-
gemborkan Pemerintah pada rakyat itu. Sesuai dengan Pancasila kalau tidak salah
bunyinya atau sila pertama Ketuhanan yang Maha Esa.
Masa depan Dayak Punan suram kalau begini terus.
Apa lagi adanya taman nasional yang di mana daerah-daerah hulu sungai
hampir semuanya kena taman national bertumpang-tindih dengan tanah adat.
Ditambah lagi HPH. Nah, di manalah kami-kami ini untuk mencari makan lagi.
Hutan-hutan sudah dibeloker oleh pengusahaan.
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Padahal segala hasil ada di sana, contoh:

1. rotan ada di hutan.
2. kayu gaharu ada di hutan.
3. kayu buat papan ada di hutan.
4. damar ada di hutan.
5. berburu binatang ada di hutan.
6. sagu ada di hutan.
7. orang Punan menggantung nasibnya di hutan.
Segala-galanya di hutan.
Sedang penelitian lokal dilakukan sekarang ini setiap desa rata-rata 70–75
persen orang masih bergantung pada hasil hutan. Bekerja di perusahaan tak punya
keterampilan, menjadi pegawai negeri apa lagi, hanya tinggal merana saja.
Apa lagi sekarang. Kecamatan Malinau sudah resmi menjadi Tingkat II
(Kabupaten Tingkat II Malinau). Dengan sendirinya kita tahu, bukan? Segala yang
ada pasti ditata ulang atau ditertibkan kembali. Pertama-tama nanti sawah ladang
dan kebun rumah sebidang tanah tentunya memerlukan sertifikat atau segel. Semua
itu kami tidak punya. Semua orang Punan sudah kacau jadinya. Maksud saya
orang-orang Punan yang ada di lokasi Respen Sembuak pada mau berpikir pulang
ke hulu/tanah asal mereka. Kalau terjadi pengungsi pulang ke hulu ini, tentu lebih
parah lagi. Kalau pemerintah mau, tidak apa-apa tapi, kalau tidak mau, nasib telah
menjadi bubur, atau dalam istilah Nasi jadi Bubur. Apakah hidup ini sudah?
Kalau orang Dayak pada umumnya, masih ladang, kebun, tanah adat, tanah
jakah, rumah, sungai, kuburan, gunung yang mempunyai hasil. Tidak memakai
surat-menyurat. Yang kami pakai adalah tanda. Umpamanya, gunung, sungai,
kuala, sungai, bota, itulah sebagai tandanya milik seseorang. Atau kuala sungai
atau gunung itu sebagai tanda tak bisa berobah. Maka dari itu kami Dayak tak
memakai surat-menyurat. Surat bisa dirobah siapa saja yang mau merobahnya.
Tapi kalau gunung, kalau sungai, kalau puncak gunung, siapa yang bisa merobah
gunung, siapa bisa merobah sungai. Maka dari itu kami Dayak menggunakan apa
yang terpapar tersebut di atas tadi itu. Jadi cerita turun-temurun itulah sebagai
bukti kuat bagi Dayak umumnya.
Budaya orang Punan di masa dulu dan masa sekarang
Budaya Punan dulu. Hidup rukun dan damai, persatuan sangat kuat tidak bisa
dipisah-pisah oleh siapa pun juga. Satu contoh, ada satu desa, salah seorang mendapat
binatang/babi. Jadi babi tersebut harus dibagi setiap warga desa. Jangankan orang
desanya, sedangkang orang pendatang harus dikasih makan. Ini juga bentuk
persatuan. Jika orang meninggal setiap warga harus membantu, memberi apa saja
yang ada padanya, umpama beras sagu ikan bahkan tenaganya. Kasih kain, kasih
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parang, untuk orang yang berduka itu. Ini bukti persatuan mereka. Orang kawin
salah satu dari desa mereka, ini perlu dibantu memberi barang apa saja yang ada
pada seseorang. Umpamanya, tempayan, gong, manik yang berharga, kain, dan
sebagai-bagainya. Segala ini yang dinamakan la’ lou (tengunyun). Bila ada seseorang
yang susah itu perlu dibantu. Makanya kita lihat orang Dayak umumnya. Tak
pernah kaya sebab orang Dayak saling memberi dan saling menerima.
Orang Punan masa sekarang
Punan sekarang sangat berbeda dengan orang Punan zaman dulu. Kalau
seseorang Punan mendapat babi atau ikan sekarang ini paling-paling mata
melihat atau sekedar memandang saja, tak bisa minta-minta. Kau minta tak
akan dikasih kecuali membeli baru boleh. Berarti harus mengeluarkan duwit
kita sendiri. Sedang yang terpapar di atas tadi saling kasih-mengasih. Itulah
perobahan orang Punan dulu, dan orang Punan sekarang. Jauh perbedaannya.
Sekarang orang Punan banyak bergaul dengan orang kota yang tak punya budaya
kasih-mengasih atau bantu-membantu satu sama lain. Di sinilah kekeliruan
yang banyak dilaku oleh orang Punan. Padahal orang Punan itulah yang punya
budaya saling bantu-membantu sesamanya. Saya sendiri tidak dapat berpikir
bagaimana yang baik sudah inilah kekuatiran saya terhadap suku Punan ini.
AUTHORS’ NOTE
The original texts were written by K.A. Klimut in September and November
1999, and were then transcribed and translated by Dick van der Meij, MA, at
the International Institute for Asian Studies (IIAS) in Leiden, the Netherlands.
The introduction, all insertions (in square brackets), and endnotes are by
R.K. Puri. Editing of the translation and all notes were completed by R.K. Puri
while visiting the IIAS in the Spring, 2000. Thanks go to Bernard Sellato for
carefully checking the translation and providing comments and corrections.
Peter Sercombe, Deanna Donovan, and Michael Jacobsen also commented on
an initial draft. All correspondence concerning this chapter should be directed
to R.K. Puri at R.K.Puri@ukc.ac.uk.
NOTES
1. The government program to resettle inland people was called RESPEN, an acronym
for Resetelmen Penduduk (population resettlement).
2. For ethnographic background on the Punan, see Hoffman (1984), Kaskija (1988,
1995, and in this volume), Puri (1998a) and Sellato (1997 and 2001).
128
3. Important sources for the debate in Borneo are Brosius (1988a), Hoffman (1981 and
1984), Kaskija (1988), Rousseau (1984), and Sellato (1988). Sources on the ideology
of nomads in Borneo, and elsewhere, include Bird-David (1992b), Brunton (1990),
Fox (1969), Gardner (1966), Kaskija (1995), Needham (1964 and in this volume),
Peterson (1993), Sellato (1993a and 1994a), and Woodburn (1982).
4. Since the essay was written in two parts, it has a confusing set of numbered and
repetitive headings. With permission of the author, in the English translation I
have taken the liberty to reorganise the headings so that the reader understands the
organisation of passages.
5. Occasionally, I insert what I feel to be missing words or needed corrections that
might otherwise impede the reader’s comprehension or that would be distracting if
footnoted.
6. Aromatic resin from Aquilaria species (Thymelaeaceae).
7. The bast of Aporusa frutescens (Euphorbiaceae), which is used as a mordant for dyeing
in the batik industry.
8. From Collocalia fuciphaga subspecies vestita, which is found in the Tubu’ River area.
9. This data appears to have been taken from the published statistics of the province
and regency, which Klimut has access to at the Yayasan Adat Punan office and
the Malinau District government office. Klimut is known as an avid reader and
researcher of facts. He is often accused of being a journalist in disguise; journalists
being regarded suspiciously by the Indonesian administration, Army, Police, and
even some ordinary citizens.
10. I am well aware that Klimut here lists more than 12 Dayak groups. The Malay groups
or Orang Melayu (including Islamised Dayak such as the Tidung and Bulungan)
were organised around sultanates and controlled the lower reaches of major river
systems and, therefore, the trade in and out of the interior of the province. The
Tidung were in the Sesayap (and controlling the Malinau, Tubu’ and Mentarang
rivers); the Bulungan were in the Kayan and Berau rivers; the Kutai were in the
Mahakam basin; and the Banjarese were on the Barito River and later, together with
the Kutai, on the Mahakam (see Kaskija 1995: 26; see also Appell 1983 and 1985,
Sellato 2001).
11. There is some debate concerning the English translation of kabupaten and kecamatan
in the literature. Some people would translate the former as ‘district’ and the latter
as ‘sub-district,’ but I prefer ‘regency’ and ‘district’ (see also Kaskija 1995: 13).
Kecamatan are too politically autonomous in perception and practice to be thought
of as ‘sub-’ anything.
12. As of December 1999, these two districts are now included in a newly created
Malinau Regency, with the new capital in the town of Malinau on the Sesayap River.
The Bulungan Regency now covers only the lower Kayan River, but is still based in
the town of Tanjung Selor.
13. Klimut argues that the Punan are a sub-category of Dayak, the indigenous people
of Kalimantan. He often refers to this group as Punan Dayak or Dayak Punan. The
category consists of all ethnic groups that call themselves Punan or are labelled by
outsiders as Punan (in the Bahasa Indonesia sense of a nomadic forager), including
129
Punan Aput of the Apo Kayan, Bukat of the upper Mahakam River, Punan and
Basap of the Kelai and Segah Rivers, all Punan groups of the lower Kayan, Malinau,
and Mentarang river watersheds, and the Penan Benalui of the Bahau River. That
many of these groups are already settled and have a long history of agriculture, as well
as having distinct languages, is of little concern for this classification. They are all
Punan. Based on this and other conversations, I believe that Klimut thinks of ‘Punan’
as not just an ethnic group, but more as an ecological grouping encompassing all
those people living closest to the forest, and those who depend most heavily on forest
resources for subsistence and trade. Conceived as such, the class has political-economic
overtones as well. These groups are simultaneously at the top of the forest economy,
the collectors of numerous forest resources, and at the end of the line with regard
to access to trade goods and political and economic power. These are the remotest,
the poorest, and the least powerful people in the historical political economy of East
Kalimantan.
14. Kaskija (1995: 26) gives the population of the Punan as 3,700; constituting
20 per cent of the total population of Malinau District and almost 50 per cent of
the indigenous Dayak population. These are unusually high numbers for nomads
in Borneo (see Rousseau 1988: 9), but understandable if indeed many of these
Punan have been settled and farming for up to seven generations, as is claimed by
Klimut and others.
15. Throughout this text, I translate ladang as ‘swidden field,’ referring to rain-fed rice
fields cultivated on cleared and burned forest lands (see Chin 1985; Dove 1985;
Sellato 1997).
16. Home gardens are planted with vegetables, herbs, spices, and fruit trees. Swidden
gardens, planted around a rice swidden hut, tend to have most of these crops as well,
as well as areas of what can be called famine food, manioc, taro, and bananas. Cash
crop gardens, planted in old swiddens or around village sites, may include coffee,
cocoa, bananas, and fruit trees such as durians, mangos, and rambutan (see Kaskija
1995; Sørensen and Morris 1997; Puri 2000).
17. In this area, forest products that generate cash include a few timber species (e.g.,
ironwood, Eusideroxylon zwageri, and kapur (a trade name; Dryobalanops spp.),
gaharu (from Aquilaria spp.), rattans (particularly, but not exclusively, from Calamus
caesius), forest fruits, illipe nuts (from Shorea spp.), honey, song birds, and bush meat
(often from the Sambar deer, Cervus unicolor, or Bearded pig, Sus barbatus). (See De
Beer and McDermott 1996; Kaskija 1995; Wollenberg and Uluk 1998; Wollenberg
et al. 1999; Puri 1998a, 1999 and 2000).
18. Yayasan Adat Punan, or YAP, was created in 1994 by Punan teachers, religious and
civil leaders, including Lawing, Darif, Dollop, and Klimut. These leaders are mostly
from Respen Sembuak, a resettlement village established in the early 1970s for the
people of roughly 10 villages of Punan from the Tubu’ area, and located across
the river from the town of Malinau. Initial funding for YAP came from the local
Catholic Church and from European environmental NGOs, via WWF Indonesia.
Their inaugural event was a Punan cultural fair held in 1994 in Respen Sembuak.
Representatives from many Punan groups, some from as far away as the Apo Kayan,
met for several days of parties, discussions, competitions, and cultural displays.
Handicrafts were exchanged or sold, often to non-Punan attendees. Discussions
130
were held on mapping community lands, securing tenure, economic development,
political representation, education, the role of the church, and the loss of language,
art, and cultural values, such as sharing.
19. Kaskija (1995: 13) notes that Malinau District has a very high concentration of
Punan, approximately 40 per cent of all Punan in Kalimantan, and 20 per cent of all
Punan and Penan in Borneo.
20. Klimut uses tumbal, a Javanese term meaning ‘sacrifice’.
21. A seeming universal among parents, this gripe seems particularly aimed at the
children of Respen Sembuak who, claims Klimut, grow wilder every year! It may not
be an exaggeration, though, to state that the lives of children are much changed these
days. They live in multilingual and multicultural villages, and are exposed to images
and information about the surrounding nation and world like never before, yet they
are less aware of and in some cases not even interested in their own surrounding
environment and historical traditions.
22. This period coincides with Soeharto’s New Order government. More significant to
this area of East Kalimantan, it is the period following the military confrontation
with Malaysia. That period not only brought a war to the border area, and employed
many people as soldiers and support personnel, but also increased Jakarta’s interest in
and influence over the area. As military officers from Java took control of the province
in Samarinda, Javanese troops, doctors, and bureaucrats were sent into all areas of
Bulungan (see Magenda 1991). Klimut himself was stationed in the Kerayan.
23. Also known as Lundaye people. Lengilu’ are also descendants of Putuk ancestors who
moved out of the Sesayap River basin in the lowlands up into the Kerayan Plateau. Some
Lundaye have since moved back down into the lower Mentarang, and are concentrated
in the towns of Malinau, Tanjung Lapang, and Pulau Sapi (Sellato 1997).
24. GKII is the acronym for Gereja Kemah Injil Indonesia, which was founded by
American missionaries of the Christian and Missionary Alliance (currently based in
Colorado Springs, USA). They first arrived in the area in 1932, working primarily
on the Kayan River, and were successful in quickly converting the Kenyah tribes of
Pujungan District (Conley 1975). It was only in the late 1960s that they managed to
reach and begin to convert Bulungan’s most remote groups, such as the Punan and
Penan. The Catholic Church is as powerful as GKII in the Malinau and Kerayan
regions, less so in the Kayan River area.
25. Klimut does not mention that the bride payments requested of the groom by the
bride’s father have been growing to exorbitant levels, sometimes requiring a young
man to give up all his capital that might otherwise be used to support the new
family. Lundaye marriages are well known for their high bride prices, but mixed
marriages with Punan or others tend to spread the practice among ethnic groups.
The solution to high bride prices is to elope, which no one prefers but young couples
are often forced into.
26. Lahan pasang-surut, ‘land within the tidal zone’, is low-lying swampy land subject
to daily inundation as the tides change and to extensive flooding during the rainy
season. River water in this area tends to be almost always cloudy with high silt and
clay content. People from the interior are wary of such water, almost always referring
to it as dirty.
131
27. Klimut refers to the practice of nurses and doctors travelling to remote villages to
give immunisation shots and treat residents in their villages. This is effective and
necessary as often elders are too weak to travel, and the Punan are generally unable
or unwilling to go to the government clinics.
28. A ‘sponsor’ generally refers to a patron who provides capital for business enterprises
(such as forest product collecting) and access to the markets, usually by agreeing
to buy what the clients produce. They may also arrange matters of government
bureaucracy, and support their clients and their families during emergencies.
In Indonesia’s hierarchical and stratified society, sponsors are like parents and are seen
as being responsible for their clients, in both a legalistic and ethical or moral sense.
29. In addition to tighter controls, the number of village heads may also be reduced
and those who remain, given more responsibility. As a trend across the interior of
East Kalimantan, official village status is being limited to settlements with more
than 500 residents. This means that small Punan villages will, in an administrative
sense, have to fuse. The consequences of this are that there will be fewer salaried
positions available and that the annual government allowance (to village heads)
and aid money (to villages) will have to be distributed among a much larger
population.
30. The expectation is that the town of Malinau will need more land for agriculture,
housing, etc, and that those people who do not have official documentation of tenure,
something along the lines of a land registration certificate, will be forced to leave.
As Peluso (1995) has argued, maps are seen as crucial evidence of tenure and are being
used to argue claims for government recognition. Not only are the Punan worried
about the security of their settlements at Respen Sembuak and Lubuk Manis, they
also worry that their homelands on the Tubu’ could be usurped or given away to
industrial interests. There remains a tension between allegiances to the two localities,
with some people advocating a move back to the Tubu’ to secure their lands.
31. Sistim suku or sukuisme usually refers to the favouring of one’s own ethnic group over
another. The phrase is not uncommon among Dayak. It is often used to characterise
the days of tribal headhunting, when endogamous tribes were pitted against each
other in war. Under Indonesia’s Pancasila (Five Principles) state ideology (see Note
34 below), all people are citizens first, and ethnic identities are not supposed to
matter. I have heard the phrase used in admonishing someone for stereotyping
Punan because of their ethnicity. For example, a statement such as ‘Punan are clever,
they don’t need money,’ might be met with the response, ‘Mr A is clever, not all
Punan are so! We are not returning to the time of sistim suku, are we?’ Klimut often
uses the term to characterise what he believes to be systemic or institutionalised
discrimination. Although he may exaggerate the degree to which generalised
corruption (e.g., managers ‘selling’ jobs) overlaps with discrimination (i.e., it may
be that the Punan are unable to play the game because they lack the resources, not
because they are Punan), the economic stratification of Indonesian society along
ethnic and religious lines is evidence enough for Klimut and others that sistim suku
is organised, pervasive, and very much alive. I thank Bernard Sellato for helping me
to clarify this note.
32. For an educational system that is supposed to be government subsidised and
essentially free for the poorest in Indonesia, the Punan and other Dayak peoples
132
claim to spend a lot of money on education. This includes money for questionable
fees (bribes, in many cases), school uniforms, writing books and paper, pens and
pencils, maintenance of the school buildings, and other incidental costs resulting
from supporting teachers in the village – they often have smaller fields, or don’t
grow their own rice, and depend on generous neighbours to help them with basic
subsistence needs. Teachers themselves are paid very little and, often, especially in
remote villages, they are paid late because they have to go and get their salary at the
district capital. Reportedly, some teachers never receive special government subsidies
of rice and other ‘hardship’ bonuses, due to corruption at higher levels.
33. Klimut, like many Dayak I have met over the years, is acutely aware of world events.
He pays careful attention to the national news on television, reads local newspapers,
and listens to international radio broadcasts, in Indonesian, from Europe and
America. He is quick to point out contradictions and hypocrisy, and he is not afraid
to confront local leaders or any visitor with his opinions and analysis of world events.
One of my favourite images is Klimut in front of a television with the remote in his
hand, scowling at the screen as he punches the buttons, saying: ‘This is just like us,
under remote control from Jakarta!’
34. The use of Tuhan yang Maha Esa instead of Allah, to refer to the belief in a ‘Supreme
God’ in the first principle of Pancasila, was chosen to encompass diverse religious
groups, but I don’t think that is what Klimut implies by mentioning the principle
here. This line occurs at the end of the page and it appears that the author has left
the thought hanging, for he does not pick it up again in his references to the national
ideology on the next page. More likely, though, he has confused this principle with
the fifth one, on ‘Social Justice’. But his indignation is apparent enough, and Pancasila
is an easy target these days. First announced by Soekarno in 1945 and meant to define
the basic values for a unified and culturally neutral Indonesian political culture, the
five ideals of the Pancasila are (1) belief in one supreme god, (2) humanitarianism,
(3) nationalism expressed in the unity of Indonesia, (4) consultative democracy, and
(5) social justice. Its ideals ring hollow for many Indonesians today, especially in the
face of emerging evidence of the way the country has been run and the way its citizens
have been treated over the last generation. If given the chance, I know Klimut could
list countless examples of the violation of those principles from his own area.
35. The Kayan Mentarang National Park, gazetted in 1997, covers 1.3 million ha,
running along the border with Sarawak from the Apo Kayan in the South to the
border with Sabah in the North. Some northern tributaries of the Tubu’, such as
the Kalun River, are included in the Park. The Punan, and most other residents,
were never consulted about the borders of the original Nature Reserve (Cagar Alam
Kayan-Mentarang), but they were consulted, however, by WWF when refining the
limits of the Park, and drawing the zonation. Many residents have participated in
scientific expeditions to survey the area, community mapping and resource inventory
projects, and been employed by the various projects associated with it (e.g., Dollop
Mamung 1998). Indeed, that is how I came to meet and work with Klimut in 1997.
His antipathy and suspicions are well founded of course. Even if the people writing
park management plans and trying to implement sustainable development programs
are full of good intentions, it is very possible that these lands could be used by
outsiders for other purposes, while the boundaries and even the legal status of the
park could be changed. In times of economic crises and political upheaval, parks
133
and the environment are usually of low priority and can suffer severe and irreparable
damage, as has happened recently in East Kalimantan, not to mention the rest of
Indonesia (Donovan 1999).
36. Oleo-resins primarily from Shorea species (Dipterocarpaceae), but also Agathis
borneensis (Araucariaceae). Damar from Agathis was a major cash-generating forest
product for the Dayak of Bulungan until the 1960s, when synthetic alternatives
replaced it (Burkill 1966: 768). Damar from Shorea species is still used today,
occasionally for fuel, but mostly for caulking wooden boats.
37. In the Tubu’, the Punan process sago flour from the pith of several wild growing tree
palms including Eugeissona utilis, Arenga undulatifolia, Caryota no, and Caryota mitis
(see also Puri 1997b).
38. Referring to Wollenberg and Uluk 1998, and Wollenberg et al. 1999.
39. Literally, ‘rice becomes porridge’; if you boil rice with too much water, then the rice
becomes runny porridge, and there is no going back to rice. The English equivalent
might be ‘the die is cast’.
40. Apakah hidup ini sudah? ‘What will become of our life?’ Purposefully ambiguous,
Klimut implies livelihoods, ways of life, and actual lives may be lost. He mentioned
that he was hesitant, even scared, to add this comment, but included it because it was
the truth.
41. Bota, in Punan Tubu’, can mean ‘ridge’ or, more generally, the ‘uplands’, mountain
areas covered in mature forest.
42. This remark is a bit of a non sequitur, but I think Klimut uses ‘stories’ in the sense of
‘oral tradition’, verbal information, or a communication event, that would indicate
the boundaries of someone’s land.
43. Tengunyun, a Punan Tubu’ term cognate to the Kenyah senguyun, refers to a practice
of exchanging work days, for instance during the planting, weeding, and harvesting
of rice. Klimut gives tengunyun as an equivalent of la’ lou, but the former seems more
likely an example of the latter, a kind of sharing encompassed by the more general
term la’ lou.
44. There are Punan people who work at businesses or own stands and stores, and that
is how they come to mix with town people.
45. Kekeliruan means something like ‘mistake’ or ‘confusion’, and refers to those acts of
denying to share one’s fortunes with fellow Punan.
46. This is a tricky sentence to translate, but I believe that Klimut means that those who
mix with town folk and adopt non-sharing values are no longer Punan, because to
share is in fact a determining characteristic of Punan culture.
134
Chapter 6
STUCK AT THE BOTTOM :

OPPORTUNITY STRUCTURES AND
PUNAN MALINAU IDENTITY
By Lars Kaskija
Abstract: This chapter considers the Punan Malinau, who often perceive themselves
as being tetap di bawah, ‘permanently at the bottom’, or the most disadvantaged
group. This perception, a part of their self-identification as Punan, is closely tied to
their stance vis-à-vis neighbouring groups, external agents, and the state’s priorities,
and is connected to their opportunism and perception of opportunities. Punan are
constantly on the lookout for occasions to improve their economic position (trade in
forest products, wage labour, or the sale of services and information to various outsid-
ers). Both the tetap di bawah feeling and opportunism are important factors in how
Punan fit into national development plans and questions of modernisation.
It’s hard to get money, and all the things we want to buy are expensive.
We Punan are always at the bottom. Whenever we want to sell something, it’s
cheap. When we want to buy something, it’s expensive. We are stuck at the
bottom (Bare’ Tangga’, 67, Punan Tubu’ man from Bila’ Bekayuk).
Smart people want ignorant people to remain ignorant. Punan are at the bottom
of the heap and everybody wants to keep us there. In ten years or in a hundred
years, we will still be at the bottom, or even lower (Rhomulis Abau, 45, Punan
Tubu’ man from Bila’ Bekayuk).
135
INTRODUCTION
Punan Malinau–Tubu’, the largest group of Punan in Kalimantan (approximately
3,500 in 1990), often perceive themselves as being stuck at the bottom.1 This
perception is closely tied to their stance vis-à-vis neighbouring groups, external
agents and questions of development and modernisation. It is also a part of their
self-identification as Punan. They see themselves as the most disadvantaged
local group. Despite all their efforts, they remain poor and subordinate. Such
feelings of deprivation must also be viewed in relation to their opportunism and
their perception of opportunities. They are constantly on the lookout for any
opportunity that might improve their economic position. Such opportunities
can include trade in forest products, wage labour, or the sale of services and
information to various outsiders. Both the Punan perception of themselves as
‘stuck at the bottom’ and their opportunism are important factors that affect
how they fit into national development plans and other agendas and projects of
modernisation.
The statements quoted at the beginning of this article contain much
frustration. The Punan may well have acquired the inferior attitude evidenced in
these statements over the course of centuries of being looked down upon by
others (e.g., farmers, coastal people, colonial and Indonesian administration).
Although such complaints may be interpreted, at least in certain contexts, as a
form of strategic self-denigration, they can, just as accurately and profitably, be
seen as representative of a pragmatic indigenous analysis of the socio-political
situation in the Malinau region. For example, in their dealings with various
outsiders, whether traders or NGO field staff, Punan see themselves as the
providers of resources – whether non-timber forest products (NTFPs) or
information. Outsiders profit, both in terms of money and prestige, from
the expertise and services of the Punan, but the latter are always devalued.
The Punan sense of being disadvantaged and permanently ‘stuck at the bottom’
has, however, also become an important bargaining chip in their negotiations
with representatives of a new world of outside assistance. In this situation, the
Punan have registered some success at taking advantage of their apparent
subordinate position in order to press their own claims.
BACKGROUND
To many Westerners, the nomadic Penan of Sarawak have become the ‘ecological
other,’ an example of a people with supreme ecological wisdom. It is only as we
136
Stuck at the Bottom
approached the new millennium, however, that the area with one of the largest
concentrations of Punan in Borneo, the Malinau–Tubu’ area of the present-day
Indonesian province of East Kalimantan, came to outside attention. For many
years, this area was of little recognised significance among scientists, explorers,
and adventurers. The Dutch colonial administration did of course penetrate the
area in the early decades of the twentieth century, and missionaries have been
involved in local affairs for at least 40 years. Scientists, explorers, and adventurers,
however, have produced few written sources about the area and its peoples, and
most of the ethnographic data available today have been gathered during the last
decade.2
The Malinau–Tubu’ is not the only neglected area in Borneo. There are several
such areas, particularly in Kalimantan, but what is remarkable about the Malinau–
Tubu’ area is the exceptionally high percentage of Punan who live there. Almost
40 per cent of the nomads or former nomads in Kalimantan are to be found in this
particular area, where they constitute some 50 per cent of the indigenous, non-
Muslim, Dayak population. That this large Punan population did not receive
much attention before the 1990s may appear surprising, especially if we consider
the present-day interest in Borneo nomads. This lack of interest is not, however,
particularly unusual; none of Borneo’s nomadic groups received much notice prior
to the 1980s (see Sellato 1994a: 15). In the 1950s, the first articles to deal specifically
with these nomadic groups began to be published (e.g. Needham 1954b, 1954d,
1959, 1964, and 1965). Most of these articles presented first-hand information on
groups living in Sarawak. The first books or monographs about Borneo nomads
did not appear until the 1980s (e.g., Hildebrand 1982, Hoffman 1983, Sellato
1986). It was also at this time that more popular publications began to appear
(e.g., Lau 1987).
The Malinau Area

The district of Malinau covers the Malinau and Tubu’ rivers and their tributaries,
as well as the Bengalun, Sembuak, and Semendurut river basins.3 According to
official statistics, the Malinau district has more than 17,000 inhabitants, of whom
almost 10,000 are living in or very close to the district town of Kota Malinau.
In 1990, there were approximately 3,500 Punan living in the district of Malinau,
less than 1,000 of them still living far upstream.4 In the early 1970s, a large
number of Punan Tubu’ resettled from upriver locations to large resettlement
villages (Respen Sembuak, Lubuk Manis, and Paking) close to the administrative
and commercial centre of the district. At the same time, a smaller number of
Punan Tubu’ moved to resettlement areas in the middle course of the Malinau
137
Map 6.1. Punan Malinau Settlements
River. Approximately 1,500 Punan in total, most of them Punan Malinau, have
resettled to the middle course of the Malinau River (Kuala Ran, Long Loreh,
Seturan; see Map 6.1). Therefore, in 1990, about one-third of the Punan lived
close to the district capital, one-third lived in the most accessible middle or
lower course of the Malinau River, and almost one-third were still living farther
upstream. The resettlement schemes of the Indonesian government have much
in common with the policies of the Dutch colonial administration. The Dutch
began visiting the area in 1909, although the whole area was probably not under
Dutch administration until years later. During the Dutch times, Punan Malinau
were ordered to build ‘proper’ villages, which they did at several locations even
in the upper Malinau River (e.g., Metut, Pelencau, and Lake). Efforts to resettle
people from remote areas to more accessible locations continue and, between
1970 and 1980, some 10,000 households were resettled in the whole of East
Kalimantan (King 1993: 287–288).
Aside from the pressure exerted by the authorities, there are other reasons
why more than two-thirds of the Punan population have moved downriver to
government-sponsored resettlement villages. There are a number of advantages
to living farther downstream. Punan themselves usually note that the move
downstream brings them closer to markets, and this makes it more profitable for
138
Stuck at the Bottom
them to grow cash crops, such as cocoa or coffee. Transportation of both people
and products is easier. Residence in resettlement villages also brings them closer
to healthcare and education facilities. There are, however, also a number of
disadvantages to living in the resettlement villages, which they are eager to point
out. The areas to which they were supposed to resettle have been occupied by
other groups for several decades, and these groups have already occupied the best
agricultural land. The resettlement areas are more densely populated, which
makes it more difficult to fish or to hunt wild boar; furthermore, these resettlement
villages are distant from the areas where commercially important forest products,
such as gaharu (B.I., incense-wood, Aquilaria spp.),5 are sought. Because of such
factors, a number of Punan households that have officially resettled downriver
continue in reality to reside upriver. These Punan often live for extended periods
of time in farm huts on their swidden fields. These swiddens are often located
along tributary streams, at varying distances from the resettlement areas. Other
Punan return, usually several times a year, to their home areas far upriver.
Particularly during the fruiting season or at times when it is easier to hunt wild
boar, whole families travel upriver and spend weeks, or sometimes even months,
there.
Local Variation
The subsistence economy of the Punan can best be described as a mixed
economy, and as such it shows much local variation. Intra-group diversity among
groups of hunter-gatherers has attracted more and more attention in recent years
(see Kent 1996). This diversity applies to most aspects of their lives, and not
just to the versatility characterising their economies and subsistence strategies.
The boundary usually drawn between hunter-gatherers and farmers is highly
problematic, and many authors would rather view this diversity in terms of a
‘continuum of economic systems displaying a variety of combinations of rice
farming, horticulture, gathering, and hunting’ (Sellato 1994a: 176–177; see also
Sather 1995).
In reference to the Malinau area, two sets of factors are of special importance
to the discussion of local variation in subsistence activities. One is the location of
settlements, downriver or upriver – location affects the availability of various
resources and opportunities. Another set of factors is of a political and historical
nature. Each Punan settlement or band, in the Malinau and Tubu’ areas, has its
own history of alliances, fusions and fissions, and within each of them there is
much variation. Even for the purpose of a brief macro-description of the area, it
is impossible to fit this complex social environment into neat categorical boxes
139
with clear labels. Much of what is said here is therefore a simplification of the
situation in the Malinau district as I found it in 1990–1992.
In research notes published in 1975, Tom Harrisson, who travelled through the
Tubu’ area in the 1940s, says that this river was ‘mainly controlled by settled Punan,
some of them very sophisticated;’ these Punan were ‘rich and business-like’ (1975a:
3). However, in his book, World Within, Harrisson also paints another picture,
saying that ‘in the Toeboe [Tubu’] and related rivers, there were numbers of
nomadic people, Punan […who] roam in small bands over great distances, without
cultivating anything; living off wild vegetables and game’ (1986: 265–266). This
difference, between the ‘rich and business-like’ Punan Tubu’ and other groups of
Punan (including certain groups in the Tubu’, as well as many of those in the
Malinau River area), continues to the present-day, and is a significant factor that
has to be taken into consideration in any account of Punan opportunity structures
and subsistence strategies.
One reason behind the variation that Harrisson observed more than 50 years
ago is found to be in the relationships between local Punan groups and their
closest agricultural neighbours and allies. Generally speaking, Borneo nomads
often have intermarried and become assimilated into non-stratified groups of
rice-farmers, whereas they have not done so with strictly stratified groups, such
as the Kayan or Kenyah. Lack of stratification makes assimilation easier (Sellato
1994a: 183–184, 212; Rousseau 1990: 245). Several Punan groups in the Tubu’
area were affiliated to less stratified groups, such as the Abai, Saben, Merau, and
Ngurik6 (as well as with Merap of mixed or ‘lower’ status), who are characterised
by a more ‘open’ social organisation. The boundaries between these groups were
permeable, and intermarriage between Punan and members of these agricultural
groups were not uncommon, which is probably one important reason why Punan
Tubu’ have become more ‘rich and business-like’ and more like their farming
neighbours. This applies especially to those living along the lower half of the
Tubu’ River and who have resettled to Respen Sembuak.
The Punan Malinau were affiliated to the Merap, a strictly stratified group,
with whom they have very infrequently intermarried.7 Punan Tubu’ have also
been involved to some degree in rice agriculture for a longer time than Punan
Malinau, who remained nomadic and ‘up to a short time ago, practiced no
agriculture’ (Sellato 1994a: 177). Although a few Punan Tubu’ individuals
demonstrate extensive genealogical memories, Punan Malinau can rarely recount
more than a few generations. While Punan Tubu’ demand a high, or very high,
bride-price for their daughters, Punan Malinau have not, until recently, done so.
The practice of secondary burials, common among most groups of agriculturalists
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in the Malinau area until the 1960s, was also common among some groups of
Punan Tubu’, while all other Punan groups in the Malinau–Tubu’ area bury their
dead immediately and in one stage only. Furthermore, Punan Tubu’, especially
those resettled downstream, are generally much more outspoken and self-assured,
while Punan Malinau are often more subservient in their relations with farming
groups, traders, or representatives of the government or various companies. Bare’
Tangga’, one of my main Punan Tubu’ informants, pointed out that the Punan of
the upper Malinau are still ‘holding the tail’ (B.I., pegang ekor) of the Merap or
Kenyah, meaning that they are not free, but remain those groups’ followers, unlike
the Punan (Tubu’) in Respen Sembuak, who are ‘free and educated’, and ‘brave’
and ‘unafraid in the presence of other people’, and also increasingly ‘aware of their
own rights’.
Despite the differences sketched above, there is no clear and absolute boundary
between Punan Tubu’ and Punan Malinau, who have been characterised instead
by permeability, and there has been a great deal of movement of people between
different groups, e.g. through inter-marriage.
Punan Malinau Subsistence

Punan Malinau earn their livelihood from a combination of basically forest-
oriented activities, such as hunting and gathering, collection of and trade in
NTFPs, small-scale horticulture, rice cultivation, and by acting as porters
and guides to anyone in need of their services. In addition, individuals may
engage in wage labour, for short or long periods of time, or devote time to the
cultivation of cash crops. Their economy is truly versatile and shows much flexi-
bility and adaptability to changing circumstances. Before further developing this
theme, I would like to present a few basic facts about various Punan subsistence
activities.
Most of the carbohydrates consumed by the Punan today come from cultivated
crops such as rice and cassava, which they grow themselves. Traditionally their
staple food was starch from several species of (wild) sago palms. Individual
households still occasionally extract sago. Although most Punan now grow at least
some rice, the yield from the harvest is usually not sufficient for more than a few
months. The most important crop is cassava, several varieties of which are grown.
Unlike rice, cassava can be harvested at any time of the year and therefore interferes
little with other activities. With the exception of fruits and sago, surprisingly, little
(wild) vegetable food is gathered from the forest. Mushrooms, ferns, bamboo
shoots, and honey are sporadically collected. The indifference shown towards these
wild food resources stands in sharp contrast to the elation exhibited by Punan
141
during the fruit season, which is of exceptional importance emotionally as well as

nutritionally. Likewise, very few medicinal plants are used.8
Many species of wild animals are hunted and eaten. The meat of large animals,
such as deer and wild boar, is avidly sought and has exceptional symbolic value, but
for many groups aquatic resources are a more important everyday source of animal
protein. Especially in the sparsely-populated upriver areas, there is an abundance
of fish, and for most of the year fish (and other aquatic resources, including reptiles
and amphibians) are the most reliable food resources. Some settlements devote
much more time to hunting than other settlements do; there is thus much variation
in the sources and amounts of animal protein consumed by local Punan groups.
Wage labour is of minor importance, partly because there are few opportunities,
and partly because Punan consider the wages that they are generally paid to be
too low. Individual Punan who have worked in the timber industry in Sarawak
have earned substantial incomes, however, and they have sometimes worked
there for periods of several years. Cash crops, such as cocoa and coffee, are
considered potential alternatives for earning cash, especially among Punan living
closer to markets. In 1990–1992 there were, however, few incentives for the
cultivation of cash crops, mainly because of the rapidly rising price of incense-
wood (gaharu, Aquilaria spp.).9
The collection and sale of such NTFPs as rattan, various resins (B.I., damar),
and gaharu have long been of vital importance to the Punan economy (see De
Beer and McDermott 1989, Katz 1997). At the end of the 1980s, the demand for
gaharu increased and high-quality gaharu fetched approximately US$ 50 to US$
100 per kilo. This price rose to about US$ 300 per kilo in 1991–1992. By 1999,
the price had risen to as much as US$ 700 per kilo (Wollenberg 1999).
Gaharu has been the economically most important NTFP for Punan in recent
years. It is collected by small groups of men, perhaps a father and his sons, or by
larger parties, organised and financed by a local trader. In a system based on
credit, called utang (B.I.) or bon (B.I.), traders offer members of these parties
provisions on account. This practice both enables the collectors to spend longer
periods in the forest and, at the same time, allows the trader to ‘monopolise’ their
labour in relation to other traders. In this way, each Punan man is therefore the
‘client’ (B.I. anak buah) of a particular trader (bos).10
IMMEDIATE RETURN AND SHARING

Food resources procured by groups of hunter-gatherers living in tropical forests
soon spoil in the humid environment and thus cannot easily be stored.11 It is,
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therefore, not surprising that forest nomads,12 like the Punan, consume their
food resources quickly, without regard for tomorrow. When they have plenty
of food, whether meat or fruit, they eat as much as they possibly can, and when
they have little or nothing, they simply have to go hungry. Woodburn (1980,
1982) characterised such hunter-gather societies as ‘immediate-return systems’,
and contrasted them with ‘delayed-return systems’, such as farming societies. In
delayed-return systems, people store food resources for later consumption and also
make other material investments in the future. Although Punan Malinau also
display some delayed-return features, in this section I focus on their preference
for immediate return on their investment in time and labour.
Economic pursuits in immediate-return systems frequently involve little
calculation and foresight.13 Activities that produce a return on the spot, here and
now, are generally preferred. Whether these preferences and attitudes have an
effect on the outcome of any long-term commitment, such as rice cultivation,
depends upon what other opportunities arise in the meantime. The Punan, like
other groups that do not store food or make any material investment in their
future, appear confident that the source of their livelihood, the forest, will also
provide for them tomorrow. Immediate-return economies are characterised by
this basic trust (see Endicott 1984, Sahlins 1968, 1974). Testart has observed
that ‘hunter-gatherers consider storage superfluous in so far as they trust the
generosity of nature to supply them with wild resources at any time’ (1988: 170).
In a similar vein, Bird-David notes that hunter-gatherers’ skills, knowledge, and
experience ‘reinforce the common trust in the viability of hunting and gathering’
(1992b: 41).
One striking correlate of this basic trust aspect of immediate-return systems
is a sort of ‘feast or famine’ mentality. In times of abundance people delight in
consuming everything available, with no thought for tomorrow. The food
resources that Punan appreciate most, fruit and meat (particularly wild boar), are
subject to seasonal variation and fluctuations in availability. There are times of
plenty and times of need. An abundance of fruit or meat is a reason for orgies of
consumption; everyone joyfully consumes as much as possible until there is
nothing left. If joyful consumption in times of abundance is conspicuous, periods
of scarcity and ‘hunger’ are just as conspicuous. Nonetheless, very little is done
to even out the ups and downs, with the exception of sharing.
Sharing and Demand Sharing

In immediate-return societies, the variability in food supply is frequently reduced
by sharing (see Cashdan 1989: 37ff). Punan Malinau often share food resources
143
with each other, especially the meat of large game, like wild boar. Hunters freely
share the meat that they bring back from the forest. This sharing includes all
band members, i.e., all the households co-residing at the same location receive a
share of the meat brought back from a hunt. Punan Malinau have a very strong
ethic of sharing, and it is considered extremely rude to ‘eat alone’. Eating alone
is a behaviour that is seen as typical of a selfish person who refuses to share.
Despite this ethic, most items are not shared freely; most sharing is on demand
(see Peterson 1993). A Punan will thus ask for a share of whatever he desires, and
such a request is not normally refused. The only way to refuse a request without
causing both parties embarrassment is to hide the coveted belonging or simply to
lie and say that one does not have the requested item (ibid.: 864).
Demand sharing, a lack of advance planning, and a tendency to consume
everything on the spot, all make accumulation difficult. The money Punan earn
is usually quickly spent, and, despite the fact that many of them often earn more
cash than members of agricultural groups, no one lives in such simple material
conditions as do the Punan. Shopping is often done with very little planning or
foresight; when Punan have money, they buy whatever they happen to desire,
such as alcohol, tobacco, or clothes. They are usually eager to purchase new
items of imported consumer goods such as radio-cassette recorders, outboard
engines, generators, television and VCR sets, chainsaws, watches, necklaces, and
clothes, whenever they can afford them. Normally, however, they are surprisingly
careless in their handling of these expensive goods (see Bird-David 1992a: 32).
Among neighbouring, agricultural groups, such as the Kenyah or the Putuk,
cash income is often invested in village infrastructure or in goods that last.
Punan, on the other hand, focus primarily on present needs and on the resources
available to meet them; a focus on such factors often yields very little concern
with future needs. In such immediate-return systems, people ‘do not accumulate
property but consume it, give it away, gamble it away or throw it away’ (Woodburn
1980: 99). With little or no forethought or concern for long-term accumulation,
Punan prefer to invest their money in items for consumption and symbols of
success.
In 1989, very few Punan owned a long-tailed outboard engine (B.I. ketinting).
From 1989 onwards, with the economic boom in the gaharu trade, the number
of outboard engines owned by Punan increased dramatically. This may be
compared to the increased consumption of Western-type goods that followed the
economic boom in the cocaine-trade in the Colombian Amazon (Hugh-Jones
1992: 45–46). Outboard engines were an important acquisition for most Punan.
A ketinting is not only an important practical tool and a major economic
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investment; possession of an outboard engine also lends an aura of modernity

and personal success to its owner. Despite their practical and symbolic importance,
outboard engines are not always properly taken care of. Although individual
Punan were frequently reminded to change the motor oil regularly, this was
usually neglected until there were serious problems with the engine. The lack of
maintenance of sophisticated equipment is also linked to a kind of collective
ownership. Outboard engines are constantly borrowed and used by others,
usually close relatives, which means that no one, not even the formal owner, feels
much responsibility for or concern with the maintenance of these engines.
However, to paint a picture of the whole population as carefree and short-sighted
would be simply wrong. There are several Punan, often ambitious entrepreneurs
with several years experience of the timber industry in Sarawak, who do take
proper care of sophisticated equipment, like chainsaws and outboard engines,
with both foresight and technical know-how. Also, even though immediate
consumption and the practice of demand sharing are important reasons why so
little is invested in infrastructure and lasting material assets, the most recent
‘trend’ among Punan Malinau is to build large, wooden houses, with glass
windows, verandas and, at least, a painted front. This has been the case since the
mid-1990s, especially among Punan Malinau living far upstream, and it has
been made possible by the boom in the gaharu trade and by the credit system.
These houses today have much the same aura of modernity and personal success
among Punan Malinau as the long-tailed outboard engines had ten years ago.
A Need for ‘Many Things’

In the Malinau-Tubu’ area, to be wealthy has been traditionally perceived in
terms of the ownership of goods of Asian, mostly Chinese, manufacture, such
as ceramic jars and gongs. This has been the case among all indigenous peoples
of the area (e.g., Harrisson 1986[1959]). Although to a lesser extent today than
formerly, these items are still highly prized valuables. As bride wealth payments
among Punan, these valuables, i.e., gongs, jars, and glass beads, are still exchanged.
During the last couple of decades, however, these types of valuables have been
increasingly replaced by Western goods, especially imported manufactured goods
like outboard engines, cassette players, and wristwatches.
The Punan language has no word for ‘rich’. Instead, phrases like fi’ ubat, fi’
amung (B.P., literally, ‘many things’), or fi’ melat (B.P., literally, ‘lot of iron’) are used
to characterise someone who possesses a lot of ‘things’. The ‘things’ referred to by
the words ubat, amung, or melat, however, are usually not the kind of things
that any Punan can produce with materials from the surrounding environment.
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These ‘things’ are rather manufactured goods from outside, i.e., imported goods.14
Anyone who has a number of such foreign goods – western clothes, outboard
engines, generators, valuable jars, or jewellery – has fi’ melat, i.e., a lot of unusual,
superfluous, prestige goods. On the other hand, those who have few such posses-
sions have maling fi’ melat (B.P., ‘not much iron’). These terms are, however, not
relevant to whether or not someone is a successful hunter, farmer, or collector, or in
relation to subsistence concerns. In terms of subsistence, it is relevant to talk about
being kocop (B.P., ‘hungry’) or bau (B.P., ‘full’). Any period when Punan have no
meat, fruit or rice is characterised as luman kocop (B.P., ‘season of hunger’), even if
alternative food sources are available and consumed in such large quantities that no
one suffers from actual nutritional deprivation.
This desire for imported, manufactured goods and the almost wanton
consumption of goods of all kinds, and the failure to accumulate and invest in
infrastructure and lasting improvements, are tied to Punan perceptions of the
environment as both inexhaustible and arbitrary. How the ‘many things’ Punan
desire are distributed is both unfair and arbitrary, and in relation to other groups
the Punan are always on the lowest rung. Nature, as well as every visitor, is seen
as a source of ‘things’ and riches; Punan do not see themselves as ‘producers’ of
wealth, neither in the forest nor elsewhere. They do not ‘generate’ or engage in
the production of wealth, they just extract it, as opportunities arise.
PROCUREMENT AND ENVIRONMENT

In a series of articles, Bird-David has focused on hunter-gatherers with
immediate-return systems. She suggests that, in these societies characterised by
sharing and demand-sharing, people relate to their environment in much the
same way as they relate to their sharing partners (Bird-David 1992a). They ‘view
their environment as giving, and their economic system is […] constructed in
terms of giving, as within a family’ (Bird-David 1990: 189). The environment
is seen as an ‘ever-providing parent’ (ibid.: 190). The economic system of these
hunter-gatherers, she argues, is not focused on the production, but rather on the
procurement of resources (Bird-David 1992b: 39–40). Hunter-gatherers, whether
they engage in hunting, gathering, agricultural activities, wage labour, or office
work, procure resources (ibid.: 37–38). They do not switch among various
productive activities: ‘from their perspective they simply obtain the resources
afforded by their environment through whatever means happen to be suitable’
(ibid.: 40). Among Punan Malinau, demand sharing may perhaps be seen as a
kind of procurement of resources. Bird-David defines to procure as ‘to prevail
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upon, to induce, to persuade a person to do something’ (ibid.: 40). In light of this

definition, I would suggest that the way in which Punan Malinau relate to both
their social and physical environments is one and the same.
Environment and Conservation

Bird-David claims that many hunter-gatherers perceive their environment as
an ‘ever-providing parent’ (Bird-David 1990: 190). This is, however, not the
case among the Punan Malinau, who do not do so, at least not in the (rather
romanticised) way ascribed to the Mbuti Pygmies (Turnbull 1962; see also
Grinker 1994: 6). If Punan may be said to live in a ‘giving environment’ built
on basic trust, this is an environment that they perceive as being a more or less
inexhaustible resource, a kind of ‘supermarket’. Although the forest is inhabited
by spirits of various kinds, the forest itself is not seen as a ‘parent’ nor as any
kind of sacred entity. Considering the enormous size of the forest, Punan have
no reason to regard the environment – as Western environmentalists clearly do
– as fragile and in need of human protection and care (see Milton 1996: 124ff).
The Punan relations to this environment are very pragmatic and contain few
elements of what we call ‘conservation’.
If Punan utilise certain (food) resources in a more restricted way, as a
precaution against over-exploitation, this is an act of economic rationality and
has nothing to do with morality or the ideology of conservation. During my
fieldwork in the area in the early 1990s, I never heard any Punan express worry
over the effects of logging, or even comment negatively on the situation in
Sarawak, where several of them had witnessed the effects of large-scale deforesta-
tion. Instead, Sarawak always played the role of ‘the land of opportunities’ in
local narratives. The Punan, at that time, appeared to view their environment
and the livelihood that they could extract from it in terms of immediate return.
Woodburn’s statement, that ‘those who consume most of their food on the day
they obtain it and who are unconcerned about storage, also appear to be relatively
unconcerned about conservation and about the planned development of their
resources’ (1980: 101), rings particularly true in the case of many Punan.
Given that the Punan perceive the environment as an endless source of riches,
the same is basically true of their perception of the modern, industrialised world.
For them, the modern world is also an endless source of riches, of ‘things’, a place
where wealth is generated in abundance. Therefore, they may ask for anything
and everything when they meet a temporary visitor: ‘Give me your watch, you
can get a new one when you return home.’ This behaviour may perhaps be seen
as a parallel to their attitude and behaviour when there is an abundance of fruit:
147
‘eat as much as you can now, you can always procure more later’. This attitude
also leads Punan to pursue ‘hit-and-run strategies’ in their extraction of various
resources, not least the NTFPs that fetch good prices at the moment. Punan lack
ideological constraints on these activities; and, as long as it does not have any
practical or economic consequences for them, they show very little concern about
environmental degradation. What might be termed opportunism – a readiness
to grab good opportunities whenever and wherever they appear, irrespective of
the possible long-term consequences – is an important feature of Punan culture
in general, much more important than any kind of eco-morality or ‘feeling for
nature’.
CODE-SWITCHING AND OPPORTUNITY STRUCTURES

In 1989, when I first visited the area, Punan Malinau were rather puzzled by
Western visitors’ interest in anything ‘primitive’. They repeatedly asked themselves,
and me, why these people, the most modern people in the world, would invest so
much money and effort to take photographs of anything ‘primitive’. A half-naked
Punan was more interesting than anyone dressed in a shirt and trousers; a broken
bamboo quiver was more interesting than an expensive outboard engine. They
suspected that these pictures and old artefacts fetched a good price in the West.
Punan seem to assume that anyone visiting them or their forests always has a
selfish reason. Most visitors come to collect something, whether NTFPs, timber,
stones (minerals), or ‘stories’ (i.e., information, data), that either has economic
value per se or may lead to the acquisition of prestige. Bare’ Tangga’, a Punan
Tubu’ elder, said to me, after having patiently answered my questions:
You are here to collect data. You are here to write about Punan culture in your
(note-)books. We are always happy to help you. One day you can go back to your
country and become a professor, an important man, and earn a lot of money.
I am already a kind of professor. Nobody else knows as much about Punan
culture as I do. But where is my salary?
Most visitors to the Malinau area have come with specific agendas and goals:
both the Dutch colonial and the Indonesian governments came to develop and
administer the area; Christian missionaries came to proselytise among its
inhabitants; and various others came to exploit and make a profit on economically
valuable resources, such as timber, minerals, or NTFPs of some kind. However,
especially since the 1990s, the number of visitors who have come to the area in
order to gather nothing but information has increased. These people are usually
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classified as collectors of ‘stories’ (B.I. cerita). Christian missionaries, too, have

often collected ‘stories’, but never to the extent experienced from 1990 onwards.
Westerners who travel as far as interior Borneo do so, Punan argue, in order
to convert these experiences into prestige, academic titles, well-paid jobs, or other
forms of social capital and financial gain. News of visitors is invariably greeted
with the question: ‘What is s/he looking for?’ Punan Malinau are openly
interested in estimating the power of and the resources controlled by the various
outsiders who work in or visit the region. They tend to perceive these visitors and
outsiders – whether government officials, missionaries, NGO-representatives,
tourists, or anthropologists – in terms of the ‘opportunities’ these external agents
might offer them. For example, when Punan talk about the missionaries working
in the area, the topic of discussion is rarely religion; they are much more interested
in discussing and comparing the material, medical, or economic support that
they have received or hope to receive from these missionaries.
Punan, especially leaders and entrepreneurs, quickly make themselves familiar
with the language and values of neighbouring groups, government officials,
representatives of church organisations, and so on. This strategy is well-known
among hunter-gatherers; it is variously called ‘codeswitching’ (Kratz 1981), ‘bicultural
oscillation’ (Gardner 1985), a ‘dualistic life-style’ (Morris 1982), or ‘lip-service to the
conventions of others’ (Bird-David 1988: 29). This ‘code-switching’ phenomenon
has been seen as a ‘cultural digging stick’, by which a hunter-gatherer ‘extract[s]
resources from his social environment’ (ibid.). In their interactions with outsiders,
Punan utilise their capacity to ‘codeswitch’ and speak the idiom of any potential
power holder and/or ‘donor’. It is therefore not surprising that the most talented
Punan leaders have become remarkably fluent in the vocabulary of the Indonesian
administration. It is likely that the Punan Malinau, in their dealings with various
NGOs, increasingly communicate with these outside groups in an environmentalist
– sustainability – jargon, even using concepts, expressions, and proverbs that have
not, until recently, existed in their own language (see Sellato 1999). This ‘chameleon’
technique has nothing to do with ‘acculturation’ or a lack of ‘authenticity’ – it is a
strategy, perfectly in line with their tradition, their hunter-gatherer life ways.
An individual Punan’s attitude towards and expectations of ‘visitors’ are often
intimately tied to such ‘personal resources’ as his/her level of education and prior
experience with outsiders – resources that give individuals different ‘opportunity
structures’, i.e., differential access to various kinds of opportunities. Expectations
and attitudes also affect the way in which individual Punan relate to and depend
upon the resources of the forest. If a number of alternative sources of income are
available, such as wage work for various outsiders, dependence upon the resources
149
of the forest is reduced. For those who are restricted to an upriver context, both
in terms of the location of their settlements and in terms of their education and
their experience with and knowledge of external agents, the forest remains the
major source of income. In the presence of outsiders, these Punan are usually
silent, and they may even choose to withdraw if possible. There are, however
other Punan, most of them Punan Tubu’, who have a cultural competence that
allows them to move between different forms of social interaction, from the
forest huts far upriver to offices in the district town or even the provincial capital.
As their level of education and degree of experience with wage labour and with
various categories of outsiders increase, individual Punan not only increase the
number of economic opportunities that are available to them outside the forest,
but also, at the same time, they become more and more difficult to cheat.
Increased awareness of the prices of the products that they collect, coupled with
increased sophistication in dealing with outsiders, encourage them to bypass
middlemen and, whenever possible, to sell their products directly to major traders
downriver.
The procurement of resources, as opportunities arise, and the philosophy of
immediate return, may both be seen as intimate parts of the traditional Punan
way of making a living as hunters and gatherers. These features, however, also
encourage individual Punan to pursue new and market-oriented economic
strategies, including the cultivation of cash crops, the employment as wage
labourers for local timber companies or as research assistants with international
NGOs. As Bird-David has pointed out, such new and market-oriented activities
are usually reorganised to fit into the hunter-gatherer way of life (1992b: 37) and
do not, in themselves, imply a break from tradition. Making use of market-
oriented strategies is clearly consonant with traditional Punan ways of making a
living; the eagerness with which Punan explore new opportunities is nothing
new. These new strategies, however, do entail changes that are qualitatively
different, and they are likely to generate completely new processes that have
important consequences.
STUCK AT THE BOTTOM

In her research with the Nayaka, hunter-gatherers of South India, Bird-David
found that they both ‘moan[ed] excessively about their poverty and needs’, and
‘praise[d] the goodness and generosity’ of giving agencies, whether human or
natural (1992a: 30). The Punan Malinau, too, praise the generosity of patrons,
visiting outsiders, church leaders, government officials, and others, and complain
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about their own poverty. ‘We are very happy whenever we meet you, because
you have always been compassionate and given us medicines, cigarettes, and
things we need’ and ‘Pity me, for I have no shirt. Give me your shirt’ are both
claims that Punan may make when meeting outsiders; both claims are voiced
strategically to procure resources. Punan Malinau are hunter-gatherers operating
with an expectation of immediate return, and they do in reality often have very
little; as a result of this, they both ask for, and expect to receive, food and things
from the apparently well-to-do outsiders whom they meet. These ‘complaining’
and ‘praising’ behaviours have, at least partly, been shaped by history. The Punan
have a history of being looked down upon by others (farmers, coastal people,
colonial and Indonesian administrations), and they have turned that experience
into a tool for manipulating their current social environment.
Although the Punan perception of themselves as being ‘stuck at the bottom’
is, in certain contexts, a strategy of deception and/or manipulation, it can also be
seen as a serious critique of how the world in which they live is constituted and
functions. When they see the material plenty of people in towns and cities, such
as Malinau and Tarakan, they often experience sadness (see pelulup urip, below)
and feelings of being disadvantaged and positioned ‘at the bottom’. They perceive
the world as very unequal and unfair. They would certainly like to possess all the
shiny and fascinating consumer goods that they see in towns and marketplaces.
Unfortunately, there are many difficulties and dilemmas that make the acquisition
of such goods difficult. Traders demand high prices for the commodities and
manufactured goods that they supply to the Punan, but the products of Punan
labour that they receive in return are devalued and under-priced. Utang (B.I.) is
a practice in which traders extend credit against future deliveries of NTFPs,
especially the much sought-after gaharu. Such credit contracts, which are most
commonly entered into by those Punan who live farthest upstream, are clearly
disadvantageous to them. Many Punan are deeply in debt to traders, who gladly
provide them with anything from sugar, tobacco, and medicines to manufactured
consumer goods like cassette players. In 1997, for example, traders had provided
at least two upriver settlements with televisions, satellite dishes, and large diesel
generators – on credit.15
The Punan themselves wryly observe that whatever they do has little value.
Various handicraft products, even the fine woven rattan baskets and mats
produced by skilled Punan women, that are in demand for export, fetch very low
prices. There are few opportunities for wage work within the district and the
wages are very low. Most external agents who visit the area are rich; whether they
are researchers or representatives of timber companies, mining companies, or
151
NGOs, they control enormous resources and all of them have substantial
incomes, but they all undervalue the work and services of the Punan and pay
them only meagre salaries. As they themselves claim, Punan are always ‘at the
bottom’.
Another reason – and an important one – why Punan often feel that they are
‘at the bottom’ may be found in the dire health situation of many Punan. As they
often say: ‘If we get seriously ill, we die alone.’ Punan, especially those living
upstream, are truly disadvantaged when it comes to health care. In 1990–1992,
the most common ailments were fever, respiratory diseases (bronchitis,
pneumonia, pulmonary tuberculosis), diarrhoea, stomach disorders, and various
kinds of injuries. Most women suffered from chronic anaemia. According to the
data that I collected in a number of upriver settlements, more than 40 per cent
of all children died at an early age, because of malaria, fever, and diarrhoea (see
Knapen 1998). It is perhaps not surprising that Paradise (B.P. kediman dau) was
depicted by one informant in the following way:
Kediman dau is a very large city for all people who died on Earth. A king, called
Rajah Kediman Dau, lives there, and he has a hospital that is big enough for
everyone. In Kediman Dau, everyone is well off, but not wealthy. When it comes
to development, Kediman Dau is the best place there is (Tomas Tangga’, 50,
Punan Tubu’ man from Rian Tubu’).
Most informants, especially old people, often pointed out that the health of
the Punan had been much better in the past. Formerly malaria, which is now
endemic, was an uncommon disease among nomadic Punan (see Knapen 1998).
Unyat Iman, an old (65–70) Punan Malinau man from Pelencau, commented
that:
Now there are doctors and many kinds of medicines, but we are sicker than ever
before. In the past we always drank water directly from the river without getting
sick. Now we get sick even if we boil our water.
Punan Malinau often compare their situation with that of the indigenous
population of neighbouring Sarawak, East Malaysia. In Sarawak there are
immunisation programs for all children and good health care for everyone; there
are even flying doctors for distant Penan settlements. There are also many logging
camps and the wages paid there are very good. Development has reached even
the most distant villages; in Sarawak they all are modern. Punan Malinau often
point out that Bruno Manser – a Swiss artist who for seven years at the end of the
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Stuck at the Bottom
1980s stayed illegally among nomadic Penan, and who drew much media
attention to their plight – helped the Sarawak Penan and saw to it that they
receive compensation money from local timber companies, which has enabled
them to build modern villages and buy a lot of modern things.16 After having
reflected upon the situation in Sarawak, one of them, Rhomulis Abau, wryly
commented: ‘We (on the other hand) live in a poor country’ – a country ‘at the
bottom.’
Identity and Group Sentiments

Many of the features that correlate hunter-gatherers with immediate-return
systems are particularly characteristic of those groups who have been surrounded
by larger and more powerful agricultural or pastoral societies (Woodburn 1988:
35). Egalitarianism, individualism, family autonomy, opportunism, and spatial
mobility are all among the core features of such ‘encapsulated’ or, as Sellato
(1994a: 119) has called Borneo nomads, ‘enclave’ hunter-gatherers. These specific
features seem to occur not because these groups are isolated, but rather because
the relationships between these hunter-gatherer groups and larger socio-political
systems are ‘generic to their social system’ (Bird-David 1988: 20).
If Punan experience a sense of ‘Punan-ness’, this is, as Sellato has argued,
based on such core features of Punan livelihood as a preference for immediate
return, opportunism, individualism, and pragmatism (Sellato 1994a: 209).
Sellato claims that a feeling of Punan-ness is ‘common to all the Punan, it affirms
Punan identity in contrast to that of farmers’ (id.). This Punan identity is not to
be found in material propensities, in a formalised cultural repertoire, or in other
such overt attributes. It is, rather, something that is enacted in their daily lives
– but it is not formalised, verbalised, or codified. It is only when Punan explicitly
compare themselves with others, however, that feelings of ‘us’ as opposed to
‘them’ seem to find open expression. A case in point is pelulup urip (see below)
and complaints about being ‘stuck at the bottom.’ What Punan see in other
groups is mainly what they themselves do not have – houses, fields, riches,
‘things’. What they, as Punan, have, and the others do not, is a particular way of
life. It is only in opposition to the surrounding world – and especially in relation
to aspects of that world of which they feel deprived – that a sense of ‘Punan-ness’
can be observed. Traditional Punan forms of procuring a livelihood have not
favoured the development of a long-standing attachment to territory. Nor have
they served to shape stable, over-arching political, social, or religious institutions.
Each band is autonomous, and there is no sense of shared common interests
nor forms of organisation ‘at the level of the ethnic group’ (Sellato 1994a: 144).
153
At the core of the Punan social universe is the loosely assembled band; but even
this basic group will often segment into smaller units, as individuals and
households respond to divergent interests and perceived opportunities elsewhere.
While group sentiment is commonly predicated upon the distinction between
one’s own group and others, it is important to observe that the expression of this
group sentiment among the Punan has a particular tone.
Pelulup urip: Brooding over Life’s Hardships

In times of scarcity, or when Punan families face difficulties and disappointment,
they often sit together at the end of the day and, in melancholic monologues,
seconded by an audience of their companions, individuals take turns bemoaning
their current hardships and reflect on events of the past, both good and bad. This
semi-public airing of their grievances, and nostalgic memorialising of former
deeds and occurrences, take a very stereotypical form, both in terms of style and
content. There is even a Punan phrase for this practice, pelulup urip, ‘thinking
about life’ (see Kaskija 1998). Among close relatives and friends, these are
moments for a kind of collective contemplation of their own shortcomings and
the inequities of life, the sources of their feelings of being ‘stuck at the bottom’.
Such communal commiseration and pondering of life’s woes can sometimes
continue from sunset until well after midnight. Pelulup urip was explained by a
young Punan Malinau man as:
It’s about making a living, and about not being able to do so anymore because
of old age; it’s about the desires and needs that we feel in our hearts, because of
‘things’ – like money, jars, outboard engines – that we cannot get hold of. That’s
pelulup urip, it’s about the hardships in our lives.
RAPID CHANGE, NEW TARGETS, NEW OPPORTUNITIES

At the beginning of the 1990s there were still no roads in the middle and upper
parts of the Malinau and Tubu’ rivers. Logging was restricted to downriver areas
or neighbouring areas outside the Malinau district. Since that time, major changes
have occurred, the consequences of which lie beyond the scope of this paper. The
following is only a brief sketch of some of the most important changes that occurred
in the area during the past ten years: large areas that were still primary forest in
1990 have been logged by timber companies. Logging roads, as well as public
roads, have improved communications significantly; these roads have reached the
middle Malinau from several directions, and continue into the upper Malinau
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Stuck at the Bottom
and Tubu’ areas. New bridges have been built, even quite far upstream, across the
Malinau River. A coal mine has been opened close to the resettlement areas in the
middle Malinau. Big plantations of fast-growing tree species and oil palms have
been established or are in progress in neighbouring areas (CIFOR 1999).
In 1995, 303,000 hectares in the Malinau area were designated as the Bulungan
Research Forest (BRF). This research forest, which includes areas used for timber
production as well as protected forests, is regulated and administered by the
Center for International Forestry Research (CIFOR) in Bogor. The BRF includes
a large part of the Malinau river area, from the headwaters downstream, and also
the upper Tubu’ area; it is also adjacent to the Kayan Mentarang National Park,
where the World Wide Fund for Nature (WWF) has been conducting research
since 1990. Part of the Tubu’ area lies within the border of this National Park.
Because of this, Punan Tubu’, whether upstream or downstream at Respen
Sembuak, have had contact with the WWF, CIFOR, and a number of local
NGOs, such as the Institute for the Development of the Environment and Human
Resources (PLASMA); Punan Malinau, on the other hand, have, until recently,
had only limited contact with these new local agencies.
Many of the changes and developments that have taken place in the past
few years have had, of course, ecological consequences, but they have also
brought many new opportunities. For example, chances for employment have
increased to some degree. Even if wages, according to Punan, are still very
meagre, a few of them have nonetheless worked sporadically in road-building
projects or as unskilled, low-paid labour in the logging industry. Proximity to
timber camps has also given some households an opportunity to sell various
products, such as fruit, meat, fish, and handicrafts. The arrival of a growing
number of powerful outsiders, such as timber, mining, and plantation companies,
have contributed to increased competition for land, but it has also created new
opportunities. Claiming compensation for land that will be exploited or for
farmland or fruit orchards that have been damaged is a new potential source of
cash income. Although these claims are reasonable, they may nonetheless be
used strategically by opening up a swidden or by planting perennial crops in
areas that may become the next target for exploitation and, therefore, a generator
of compensation money. Another important aspect in this process is that land
and economic strategies are increasingly individualised, privatised.
In spite of such new possibilities to earn cash, the collection and sale of gaharu
has been unchallenged as the most important source of cash income throughout
the 1990s. As we have seen earlier in this paper, the price of gaharu has increased
dramatically from 1989 onwards. Developments, such as greater cash incomes,
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new roads and improved communications, a dramatic increase in the number of

outboard engines,17 have had a series of consequences. Formerly, differential
access to information about markets and prices made it easier for traders and
other middlemen to manipulate the Punan living far upriver. This situation has
changed, however, and continues to change; traders now face much competition.
Agriculturalists who also act as middlemen, shopkeepers, and traders cannot
now exploit the nomads as easily as they could before. The system of credit
(B.I. utang), however, is still very common, although Punan living downstream
often try to sell their gaharu to another trader from whom they have not received
any provisions, thus bypassing the trader to whom they are in debt. With the
increase in the number of boats and outboard engines owned by Punan, as well
as the construction of new roads, collectors can more easily sell their products
directly to the big traders downriver, thereby increasing their own profits.
Growing Political Awareness …?

The large resettlement villages near Kota Malinau are inhabited mostly by people
from the Tubu’ river, and there is evidence of a growing political awareness,
particularly visible among these Punan. Traditional leaders who still live upstream
are often very gifted orators and advocates for their local groups. Although
these men are highly respected and described as a’ ayo (B.P., lit. ‘big, important
persons’)18 by people upstream, they have very limited influence downstream,
among Punan Tubu’ who have resettled to Respen Sembuak. As a rule, these
traditional leaders do not have much formal education and are considered less
‘developed,’ less ‘modern’. A new type of leader, who has both education and
much experience with outsiders, is emerging among Punan living downstream.
Among these Punan living downstream, near Kota Malinau, as well as among
ambitious young Punan men living further upstream, it is becoming increasingly
important to find a wife who is educated, familiar with modern ways, and not
shy and afraid (in modern settings). ‘If you have guests coming to your house’, a
young Punan man from Respen Sembuak explained, ‘and your wife doesn’t
know how to behave, how to cook, you will be embarrassed.’ Anyone who is shy
in modern settings or among outsiders, who does not have any education and is
unfamiliar with city customs is characterised as a person who maling yam loh
(B.P., ‘does not know anything’), i.e., who is ‘ignorant’. On one occasion, I heard
a very bright, although uneducated, young man described as ‘smart but ignorant’.
Educated Punan, particularly those with university degrees, are a source of much
pride among most, if not all, Punan. Their existence is an indicator that Punan
are intelligent and that, as a people, they are no longer ‘ignorant’.
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Stuck at the Bottom
In 1994, a local NGO, the Yayasan Adat Punan (YAP, Punan Custom
Foundation), was founded by Punan Tubu’ from Respen Sembuak. The founding
of this Punan NGO occurred in a context of expanding political awareness, where
lobbying for recognition and funds, from governmental and non-governmental
organisations, is important. In June of the same year, YAP organised a ‘Punan
Cultural Festival’, which was attended by a large number of Punan, some of them
from other parts of East Kalimantan. For the first time, Punan groups who never
before had come together became aware of common interests. The first steps
towards a more complex ‘multi-Punan’ identity and the emergence of a more
encompassing category of self-identification appear to have been taken.
The presence of savvy and articulate Punan leaders and the establishment of
a Punan-based NGO may eventually lead to a ‘consciousness raising’ for Punan
as a whole, but at present they are only representative of an emerging educated
and modernised Punan elite. These are the Punan with whom outside agents will
establish relationships, and it is therefore important not to see these extraordinary
individuals as representative of the whole population. The variation and diversity
found among various Punan groups and individuals must not be lost sight of in
the rush to incorporate the Punan into the various projects of modernity now
flourishing in the Malinau.
Especially with the arrival of new organisations, such as WWF, CIFOR, and
PLASMA, new arenas for action have opened up, at least for those Punan who
have the necessary knowledge and experience. These organisations now constitute
new and interesting alternative elements – new economic targets – in the Punan’s
spectrum of hunting-gathering opportunities. In addition, there are now a
number of Punan who have realised the importance of what Brosius has called
‘strategically deployed essentialisms’ (1999: 281), and who, increasingly, can
express themselves in ways that appeal to a wider, global audience (see Sellato
1999). In the new millennium, the Punan, armed with a new toolkit, are
confronted by a whole new range of possibilities for action.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The data presented were gathered in 1990–1992, primarily among Punan
Malinau, in the course of extended fieldwork for my doctoral thesis. Where not
otherwise indicated, the time period and sub-group are those referred to in this
article. I revisited the area in October 1997 and in February 2000. The research
project was made possible by a grant from the Swedish Agency for Research Co-
operation with Developing Countries (SAREC). Financial support to take time
157
off to write this article was provided by the Center for International Forestry
Research (CIFOR), Bogor, Indonesia. I would also like to acknowledge valuable
comments on earlier drafts generously offered by Bernhard Helander, Mikael
Kurkiala, Enid Nelson, Jan Ovesen, and the editors of this volume.
NOTES
1. Punan often used the Indonesian expression tetap di bawah (here translated as ‘stuck
at the bottom’), when describing their own situation as compared to that of others.
2. There are some exceptions, such as Sitsen (1932, cited in King 1989), Lundqvist
(1949), Harrisson (1959, 1975a), Schneeberger (1979), Pfeffer (1959), and Pfeffer and
Caldecott (1986), but none of these sources present much information on the Punan.
3. All figures given here refer to the situation in the Malinau district in 1990–1992. It
should be noted, however, that the picture changed in 1997, when the Tubu’ River basin
was instead incorporated into the neighbouring district of Mentarang. This means that
the Punan villages in the Tubu’ area are no longer situated in the Malinau District.
4. Within the Malinau District, there are also approximately 200 Punan living in the
eastern part of the district, on the Bengalun and Gong Sulok rivers. This sub-group,
usually called Punan Berusu’ (because of their affiliation with the agricultural
Berusu’), differs in many respects from the Punan Malinau and Punan Tubu’.
5. In the following text, I have indicated the languages of the terms and phrases given
in italics: B.I. (Bahasa Indonesia) for Indonesian, and B.P. (Bahasa Punan) for Punan
(Malinau–Tubu’).
6. The Ngurik left the Malinau area approximately 150 years ago. We do not really know
what they were like at that time, but it seems likely that, in terms of stratification,
they came close to other groups in the region, such as the Abai. Intermarriage
between Punan and Ngurik was not uncommon, which is indicated by genealogical
data and in such statements by Punan as: ‘There are no Ngurik left today (in the
Malinau area), only their bloodline.’
7. There have, however, been cases in which a Merap headman’s son or nephew married
a Punan Tubu’ chief’s daughter. Such marriages enabled the Merap to tap the labour
of their new Punan affines. However, this did not entail assimilation of Punan
individuals and local groups by communities of Merap (B. Sellato, pers. comm.).
8. In the 1980s, Brosius was surprised to find that the Western Penan in Sarawak showed
little interest in medicinal plants. Today, however, the ‘environmental rhetoric of
medicinal plants’ has itself suffused back to the Penan and been adopted by them as
their own’ (Brosius 1997: 62). Various NGOs working in the Malinau region have
clearly expressed an interest in the ethnobiological knowledge of local Punan, including
knowledge of medicinal plants. The Punan have not only been the main providers of
such information; in meeting this demand, they have also become aware that they
are especially knowledgeable about the forest, and that such knowledge is valuable.
9. In areas characterised by an increased competition for land, planting cash crops may
now also have become a strategy for making private claims to particular plots of
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Stuck at the Bottom
land. This especially seems to be the case where land is expected to be of interest to
mining, logging, or plantation companies. The reason is that privately claimed land
raises the possibility for individual households to receive compensation.
10. The meaning of anak buah (B.I.) is complex, and depends on context; it can denote
that someone is a follower, a client, a dependent, a vassal, a supporter of some kind,
an employee, a sharecropper, a retainer, or a servant. It is based on the metaphor of
the family, i.e., a group of people headed by a ‘father’ (a patron, a bapak, or bos), who
takes care of and is supported by his ‘children’ (anak, anak buah).
11. There are, in the context of Borneo, some exceptions, such as honey, some nuts, and
animal fat (Sellato 1994a: 130).
12. At present, although all Punan in the Malinau area are more or less settled, individual
households may spend considerable amounts of time in the forest each year. It may
thus be incorrect today to talk of ‘forest nomads’. I use this phrase here, however,
because Punan ‘core features’ are still those that characterise nomadic hunter-
gatherers. Even though they may be settled and no longer strictly nomads, Punan
retain a kind of hunter-gatherer or nomad ideology and identity.
13. The lack of foresight alluded to here should not be read as referring to some
psychological ineptitude or as having a negative connotation – I do not intend that it
should be. A versatile economy that focuses on the present may be just as rational as,
or perhaps even more rational than, an economy that invests totally in single, long-
term projects. Still, the expression ‘lack of foresight’ is problematic. An alternative
phrase might be a ‘lack of taste or ability for anticipation, or advance planning’,
as they may well have the foresight, yet not implement it, as a consequence of an
immediate-return economy.
14. While all three terms refer to expensive, foreign, imported goods, like jars, gongs,
jewellery, or clothes, two of the terms, ubat and amung, have a meaning that may
also include bags or mats made of rattan, or blowpipes. Melat, however, meaning
‘iron’, only refers to imported goods, whether made of iron, ceramics, gold, cotton,
or some other material. Today, however, it has become increasingly common among
Punan to use Indonesian (B.I.) words, like kaya (‘rich’) or barang (‘things’), even
when speaking in their own language.
15. Two years later, one of these satellite television sets had ceased to function, while the
second one was washed away by a large flood in February 1999.
16. However, see Brosius in this volume. This perception, or misconception, was very
common among the Punan in the Malinau area at the beginning of the 1990s.
17. The number of outboard engines increased rapidly from 1989 until 1995–1997. Since
then, it has dropped considerably. There are two main reasons for this. First, the
monetary crisis in Indonesia, which has had an effect on the price of these engines.
Second, the construction of new roads, which has reduced the importance of rivers
as means of communication and transportation, at least on the lower half of the
Malinau River.
18. Although currently all prominent persons classified as a’ ayo are men, in the past
Punan women were also prominent leaders.
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Chapter 7
NESTED DISPUTES: BUILDING

MEDIATION PROCEDURES FOR THE
PUNAN IN WEST KALIMANTAN
By Mering Ngo
Abstract: This chapter examines the mounting conflict over the collection and con-
trol of edible swift nests, and this product’s economic importance for the Punan com-
munities living near Betung Kerihun National Park, on the upper Kapuas River,
West Kalimantan. The park, the first trans-boundary conservation area in Indo-
nesia, has been conceived as an ‘ integrated conservation and development project’
(ICDP). Three case studies illustrate the dynamics of the conflict over the exploitation
of nests, each being analysed in the light of kinship and power relations involving the
interests of short-term profit-seeking outsiders.
INTRODUCTION
Increasing demand for birds’ nests on the international market has significantly
stimulated forest-dwelling people in Kalimantan to collect this non-timber forest
product.1 Nests are collected far more frequently than in the past, because of
higher consumption worldwide and higher prices in regional markets. Because
of this demand, the Punan of the Kapuas and Bungan rivers are in a dilemma
over the issue of ownership and control of this commodity. Conflict regarding
management and collection appears not only within communities but also
between the Punan and traders, middlemen, and government and military
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Nested Disputes
officials. The relevance and magnitude of the study are not limited to nest
collecting and trading conflicts, but extend also to development and management
disputes relative to many other resources of Borneo’s tropical rainforest.
This paper is based on research undertaken for the development of Betung
Kerihun National Park, West Kalimantan, as an ‘integrated conservation and
development project’ (ICDP) and trans-boundary reserve.2 It is hoped that
lessons from this case study will be used in developing the overall management
plan for the national park.
Study Sites and Methods

The Punan Hovongan occupy the upper reaches of the Kapuas and Bungan rivers
in Putussibau District, Kapuas Hulu Regency, West Kalimantan (see Map 7.1).
They speak a common language with minor dialectal variations. Full ethnographic
data are provided in the course of this chapter where needed. The administrative
village (desa) of Bungan Jaya actually consists of four separate hamlets (dusun),
totalling 796 people. Most of the households of Bungan Jaya rely on the collection
of birds’ nests for cash.
Understanding the dynamics of conflict over bird’s nest caves is important for
developing a management plan for the park. In particular, community
participation should be stressed, as it is crucial to the empowerment of Punan
communities, not only relating to park management but also to community life
in general. Describing, understanding, and mediating conflicts should give the
park a better chance of a sustainable continuation into the future.
The Punan share their hunting and foraging grounds with other Dayak
groups. These include the Bukat, Aoheng, and Taman Kapuas. The Bukat,
or Kei Buket, as they call themselves, were formerly a hunting-gathering
group originating in the upper Kapuas and Mendalam rivers. Like the Punan,
most of the Bukat began to adopt a sedentary life at the beginning of the
twentieth century (Ngo 1986, Sellato 1994a, Thambiah in this volume). The
Aoheng and Taman Kapuas, in contrast, are shifting cultivators, characterised
by greater social stratification than the Punan and Bukat (Diposiswoyo
1985).
This study was conducted in two hamlets, Tanjung Lokang and Nanga
Bungan, over a period of four months, with the help of one assistant and
three local residents. Several methods were resorted to. Household surveys
were employed to obtain information on income structure and sources. In-
depth interviews were used to gather data on resource tenure, land use, and
161
Map 7.1. The Bungan Area

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Nested Disputes
decision-making processes concerning resource management. Village-level data

were collected through group discussion, household surveys, community
resource mapping, and participant observation. District officials and foresters
in Putussibau were also interviewed. A field manual was used to examine
leadership and power dynamics, both within the village and beyond the village
boundaries. Group discussions were held to elicit diverse viewpoints regarding
resource-use practices, particularly related to bird’s nest collection and trade.
This information is important because it provides an understanding of the
principles of resource tenure and local-level procedures for settling disputes over
resource management and use. No previous research had addressed this topic in
any detail.
The World Wide Fund for Nature Indonesia also conducted a series of
community mapping operations, the objective of which was to gain a clearer
picture of local-level resource distribution and use, including the distribution of
bird’s nest caves. Community resource mapping has become a powerful tool for
encouraging group discussion on resource disputes. Clarification of related
information can be achieved by using the Global Positioning System (GPS) (see,
e.g., Flavelle 1993, Josayma 1996, Momberg et al. 1996).3
Betung Kerihun National Park

Before 1995, forest lands around Nanga Bungan and Tanjung Lokang were
gazetted as a nature reserve. Indonesian forestry regulations prohibit any human
activity within nature reserves. This regulation is particularly important in Betung
Kerihun National Park because this mountainous region, lying at the headwaters
of the Kapuas and Bungan rivers, requires protection to secure its function as a
water catchment area, and to preserve its unique biological diversity. In September
1995, the status was changed from nature reserve to national park by decree of the
ministry of Agriculture and Forestry, and WWF Indonesia was asked to act as the
coordinating organisation for project activities within this park.
WWF Indonesia’s main goals were to develop a management system that can
promote conservation of biological diversity and the ecosystem, and to develop
socio-economic features of the local natural resources for the local communities’
benefit. National park regulations allow human activities within what is called a
‘traditional use zone’. The definition of the kinds of activities approved for this
zone is based on the results of studies on issues such as biological diversity, forest
ecology, resource management, regional planning, and social and economic
factors. These studies are currently under way; to date, only the ethnographic
study has been completed.
163
BACKGROUND
Historical Sketch and Settlement Pattern
Wariso (1971), Kartawinata (1993), and Sellato (1994a) have studied the Punan
Hovongan in West Kalimantan.4 Likewise, in Sarawak, important recent works (e.g.,
by Brosius and Langub)5 are available on Penan groups, as they are called there.
The oral tradition of Punan Hovongan in Tanjung Lokang and Nanga
Bungan shows that this group came down from the upper Bulit (or Hovorit) and
Bungan (or Hovongan) rivers more than six generations ago. In those hamlets,
they were divided into three sub-groups, speaking separate dialects, Hovorit,
Hovongan, and Hovo’ung. Nowadays, the last sub-group mainly lives at Bo’ung
(Hovo’ung), a tiny hamlet, and Nanga Lapung on the Kapuas.
In the early 1970s, an important group of Punan families (puhu’ ) 6 lived
together at the present site of Tanjung Lokang. A few years later, some families
of Punan Hovo’ung moved to Nanga Lapung, downstream from Tanjung
Lokang, to collect incense-wood (gaharu, Aquilaria malaccensis), while the rest
of the Hovo’ung decided to stay at Tanjung Lokang.
The Punan Hovongan are gradually adapting to sedentary life in single-house
dwellings. In the early 1910s, longhouses (lovu’ daru) were built, and the Punan
Hovongan practised shifting cultivation, influenced by the Seputan, Semukung,
Aoheng, or Kayan groups. In the past, the Punan also lived in temporary shelters
(pabut), with certain gathering centres. This maximised their mobility, so they
could process their main staple food, wild sago (Eugeissona utilis Becc.), and collect
non-timber forest products, which they traded through middlemen for tobacco,
salt, sugar, etc. The Tanjung Lokang longhouse disappeared in the early 1980s.
Social Organisation and Power Structure in

Relation to Resource Control
In the past, preferred marriage was between first cousins. However, people could
also choose to marry others within the band. More recently, they tend to marry
within the community and village. After marriage, the husband, even if he is
an outsider, resides with his wife’s family and community. Interestingly, certain
outside traders, Chinese or Malay, use this principle to establish themselves
within a community and so protect their interests in bird’s nest collection and
trade.
A married woman, either the eldest daughter or a person designated by the
parents (ngevian tahakan), is responsible for managing and allocating heirlooms
and property rights belonging to the natal family. These property rights include
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Nested Disputes
managed forest gardens (lepu’un)7 and bird’s nest caves (diang saa seleppini). The
woman and her husband have primary rights of use over this resource; her brother
or sisters, with their wives or husbands, only have secondary or usufruct rights.
The Punan Hovongan are basically egalitarian. But they have adopted from
the Aoheng some terms referring to hierarchical positions, such as dangan
tahakan, meaning elder or leader. This is a semi-hereditary leadership position.
Nothing is sacred about the role or status, and it entails no special privilege,
except that leaders may sometimes have several wives.
A leader has little formal authority. His power is based only on personal
qualities. No difference in status is marked or ascribed. However, his influence
depends on his experience, wisdom, and ability to make decisions. It appears that
decisions may be made only after a general discussion (betusat), in which everyone
has a voice.8 Thus, a band leader’s prestige derives not from his status, skill as a
hunter, or ability as a provider, but from his leadership qualities. These qualities
include being hard-working, eloquent, experienced, and fully familiar with the
group’s history and traditions. In addition, the leader can represent the band or
community in its interactions with the outside world. This is particularly true
when the band interacts with farming groups, traders, and government officials,
even more so in the current social and economic situation.
A command of neighbouring languages and of the national and regional
languages is a highly desirable leadership skill, as the Punan Hovongan are
anxious to meet other groups on an equal footing. Outside connections, integral
to the leader’s role as a representative, can only raise his prestige within the group
or community, and this leads to a certain degree of social inequality. This is
particularly true if one of his sons or relatives is closely linked to the government
apparatus at the village or district level. These dynamics strongly influence the
power structure at Tanjung Lokang and Nanga Bungan, and are extremely
important in the decision-making process regarding the resolution of conflicts
over bird’s nest caves.
Modes of Livelihood
The Punan Hovongan traditionally inhabited primary rainforest, which provided
sago, game animals, fish, and other forest foods. The areas they lived in also
provided commercial goods. The forest environment allowed for self-sufficiency
in the matter of diet. The traditional lifestyle of the Punan Hovongan changed
at the time of the band’s first trading contacts with farming groups and again,
more recently, because of the influence of rent seekers backed up by powerful
groups from government and the military.
165
Table 7.1. Rice Sufficiency among the Punan in Tanjung Lokang and
Nanga Bungan
Tanjung Lokang Nanga Bungan

Rice sufficiency
(n = 39 households) (n = 16 households)
More than eight months – –
About eight months 1 (2.56%) –
Less than eight months 31 (79.49%) 14 (87.05%)
No rice field 7 (17.95%) 2 (12.05%)
Total 39 (100%) 16 (100%)
Source: Adapted from Ngo (1996)
Punan Hovongan rice fields are often very small and poorly tended. This lack
of interest and labour investment derives from the fact that farming is in direct
competition with commercial collecting. Punan families for whom commercial
collecting has become an economic priority have adapted their dietary economic
habits to facilitate this activity. Efforts to improve productivity in their rice fields
would be a serious hindrance to collecting non-timber forest products.
At the turn of the twentieth century, the Punan Hovongan often abandoned
their rice fields between sowing and harvesting (Nieuwenhuis 1900). A similar
situation is now observed at Tanjung Lokang and Nanga Bungan. Therefore, it
is no wonder that rice supplies from their swidden fields last less than half a year.
At Tanjung Lokang and Nangan Bungan, for example, at least 80 per cent of the
respondents in a community of 55 households were already short of rice only five
months after harvest (Table 7.1). To overcome this situation, men search the
forest for non-timber forest products, especially birds’ nests, for sale.9
The major current source of income for the Punan at Tanjung Lokang is
birds’ nests, followed by traditional gold panning and incense-wood (gaharu)
collecting. They also work as tourist guides and motorised longboat drivers.
Nanga Bungan people have a different form of livelihood. In this hamlet, the
major income is from gold panning and semi-mechanical gold mining, followed
by bird’s nest and gaharu collecting, long boat operating, and acting as tourist
guides (Table 7.2).
MAIN FINDINGS AND ISSUES

The pilfering of nests and, more often, the systematic plundering of caves are a
popular topic of discussion in Nanga Bungan and Tanjung Lokang and beyond.
Almost everyone is eager to discuss the topic, either openly or privately. These
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Nested Disputes
Table 7.2. Sources of Income in Tanjung Lokang and Nanga Bungan
Tanjung Lokang Nanga Bungan

Source
(n = 39 households) (n = 16 households)
1. Birds’ nests 31 (79.49%) 4 (25%)
2. Gold panning/mining 3 (7.69%) 8 (50%)
3. Gaharu – 2 (12.5%)
4. Tourist guides 2 (5.13%) –
5. Longboat drivers 2 (5.13%) 1 (6.25%)
6. Other 1 (2.56%) 1 (6.25%)
Total 39 (100%) 16 (100%)
Source: Adapted from Ngo (1996)
discussions are often based on suspicions rather than facts. No one really knows
who is stealing nests. It could be someone from within the hamlet, residents of
the neighbouring village, or intruders from Central or East Kalimantan.
The author found three important problems relevant to the collection of nests
in the Punan area. First, people have become increasingly uneasy over the
frequency of nest collecting. Secondly, rather than see this resource stolen by
others, the Punan prefer to use whatever means they can to collect the nests first.
Thirdly, many Punan are forced to collect nests to repay their debts to Chinese
traders, as they are trapped in this debt system (ijon) because they often need
items available from the traders.
Before 1985, the Punan collected nests based on seasonal variation (for
comparison, see Medway 1957, Cranbrook 1984, Mohamed 1999, Gausset
2002). They gathered nests during the rainy season and on into the early days
of the dry season, that is, from September through April. The Punan did not
collect nests between May and August because this is the season when cave bats
feed on birds’ eggs, as bats are forced to change their diet when forest fruits are
not in season. During this period, it is very common for the bird population to
decrease.
Cave bats are very common in the forest at the time of mast-fruiting. Then,
the birds have time to build their nests in the caves. This is why the Punan
consider the months from August until April to be the best season for nest
collecting. Based on this observation, two ornithologists and a resource
management specialist with Betung Kerihun National Park are conducting an
in-depth study of cave bats’ behaviour and food sources.
Since 1990, the Punan have begun to disregard their own traditional practices
of observing seasonal taboos (trep) pertaining to nest collecting. Instrumental in
this shift away from tradition is pressure from the short-term profit takers from
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Central Kalimantan and downstream hamlets, mostly the Bakumpai and

Malays. These outsiders enter the forest within the traditional home range of the
Punan to steal nests from caves. Rather than let their resources be stolen by
unknown people or outside groups, the Punan have begun to abandon their own
traditional foraging principles. Thus, instead of a six-month collecting period,
the Punan now harvest nests about once in every 45 days, which reduces the
quality of the nests and lowers the price they receive for them.
The design of the traditional tool to collect nests, if used improperly, is
instrumental in reducing the quantity and quality of birds’ nests. Among the Punan,
this tool (penjuruk) is meant to be used methodically and carefully, otherwise the
nest falls apart. Meanwhile, the type of tool used by the Bakumpai and other groups
from Central Kalimantan is better designed for more rapid collecting, and does not
damage the nest as extensively as the Punan penjuruk does.
The debt system (ijon) used by Chinese traders is the third factor that
encourages improper harvesting of nests. Chinese nest traders maintain small
shops and sell various commodities to the Punan, including sugar, salt, rice,
coffee, tobacco, gasoline, kerosene, clothes, work shoes, even cheap spirits and
beer. In addition, the Chinese are willing to provide personal services, such as
money lending.
The Punan often ask these shop owners to buy radios for them, audiovisual
sets, or longboat engines, in Putussibau or even in Pontianak, the provincial
capital. The agreement between the shopkeepers and the Punan requires the
return of the loan plus interest. Many such borrowers are unable to repay these
loans very quickly, and it often takes many payments before they are freed from
their debt. The Chinese, therefore, require nests instead of money. This forces
the Punan to over-harvest birds’ nests to repay their debts. These transactions are
described in Table 7.3.10 This situation leads to a variety of conflicts, involving
not only the Punan, but also traders, middlemen, and government and military
officials. Three cases below illustrate these conflicts.
The first case shows a conflict within the community, between the
administrative head of a hamlet (kepala dusun) and a villager and his family. One
cave, known as a good source of birds’ nests, was estimated by the hamlet head
and the villager to provide in every two-month harvesting season some 40 to 50
kg of nests, worth US$ 10,000 – US$ 12,750.11 Both parties had discovered the
cave about five years before and agreed to share the yield. The arrangement was
that they would collect the nests on a rotational basis, which meant once in every
four months. But the villager found that the hamlet head, breaking the agreement,
had asked other people to collect for him every two months.
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Nested Disputes
Table 7.3. Comparison of Bird’s Nest Yields
Year Amount
1991/1992 1,263 kg
1992/1993 3,870 kg
1993/1994 11,556 kg
1994/1995 8,015 kg
1995/1996 3,024 kg
Total 27,728 kg
Source: Forestry Office at Putussibau (1996)
The villager raised the issue and called for a community meeting. When he
found that the meeting was not an effective means for achieving his goals, he
asked the chief of customary law (tumenggung) and the elders (dangan tahakan)
to hold a traditional dispute-settlement meeting (betusat). This meeting was
controlled by the tumenggung because he was the hamlet head’s uncle and also
had an interest in the disputed cave. The result of the meeting was obviously
unfair because, with regard to power and authority, the villagers were at a
disadvantage.
The second case is of a conflict between the hamlet head and a family of the
Aoheng group, another Dayak group outside the Bungan region. Two years
before, that family had found a cave in the upper Bungan River, which seemed
to have a very high production of birds’ nests. After the family had been working
in the area for a year, the hamlet head asked them over to his house at Nanga
Bungan and insisted that they were harvesting nests from his private property
(i.e., the cave).
This led both parties to hold a dispute-settlement meeting. Several meetings
later, however, the case remained unresolved, despite the tumenggung’s and some
elders’ attendance. A few months later, the hamlet head asked two police officers
of Putussibau to Tanjung Lokang to help him settle the conflict. He funded all
daily subsistence allowances and fees of the police officers, even paying their
transportation costs from the town to Tanjung Lokang. After several meetings,
the Aoheng family was clearly losing its rights over the use of the cave. Finally,
after a decision was reached by the police officers, the Aoheng family accepted a
small amount of compensation from the hamlet head and gave up harvest
rights.
The third case concerns a conflict between the Punan, some Iban (also a
Dayak group), and a Chinese trader backed by military officials. In 1992, a few
Iban families from Sadap, a hamlet on the upper Embaloh River, found several
169
bird’s nest caves on the upper Keriau River. After they conducted formal
gatherings with the local residents, the Punan Kereho (or Keriau), the Iban were
permitted to collect nests from the caves, with one condition: They had to share
the yield equally with the Punan. Then, for some reason, the Iban went back to
their home village for about two years. Meanwhile, a Chinese trader, believing
that there were no rightful holders to the caves, wanted to manage them and reap
the profits himself. Some Punan confirmed that no one was claiming the caves.
The Iban were surprised when they found that the caves no longer belonged
to them. After several meetings, in which vigorous discussions sometimes almost
led to open clashes, they and the Chinese trader still could not agree. The Chinese
trader then asked some military officials from Putussibau to support and secure
his interests. These officials apparently had personal interests, namely, they
would receive some of the profits. They were also part of the Army’s cooperative
body, or Puskopad (Pusat Koperasi Angkatan Darat).12 When the Iban and their
Punan friends realised that they were powerless to protect their rights, they asked
a lawyer based in Putussibau to help them. The litigation lasted almost two years
at the court in Putussibau. In the process, the Chinese trader gave a lot of money
to the military officials and to his lawyers. In short, the Iban and their Punan
friends lost. Thus, the key elements in this litigation were the imbalances of
money and power.
DISCUSSION
The traditional hunting and gathering way of life of the Punan has almost
vanished. Nevertheless, the basic tenets of family autonomy, individualism,
opportunism, and pragmatism, which emphasise physical mobility and economic
versatility, are still vital in the realm of bird’s nest collecting.
Punan ideology, with its focus on band or family autonomy, has produced
both intended and unintended consequences. In the conflicts described above,
this genuine autonomy has resulted in a new dilemma. This is particularly
evident when family interests are closely tied to economic and power realities.
These disputes are nested in the larger disputes of people, parks, NGOs, and
government agencies.13
The shift from the exclusive use, by the band or family, of resources within its
territory to an open-access situation, in which property rights and control over
resources do not exist, is now the key element of the conflict concerning birds’
nest caves. Before 1980, for example, all caves within the home range of the
Punan Hovongan were used for, and shared by, the band or families. All others
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Nested Disputes
were denied access and use, and excluded from the decision-making process.
Individuals had rights and duties in these common-property regimes. As stated
by Bromley (1992), the capacity to exclude others stands as the sine qua non
condition of common property. Traditional bird’s nest management focused on
the regulation of outsiders’ access to the caves within Punan territory, with the
band’s ethic of access guiding its use and distribution among families.14
In the early 1980s, the traditional power structure of the Punan Hovongan
deteriorated. They were regrouped, under the new village administration
regulation (Law No. 5 of 1979), which states that each village (desa) must consist
of, at least, 2,500 people. Traditional mechanisms for determining leadership
were abolished, including the position of the chief of customary law (tumenggung).
The unintended impact was that little incentive was kept alive for maintaining
traditional ethics of access to birds’ nests and that no indigenous management
techniques were retained. In addition, traditional sanctions and incentives have
become inoperative or dysfunctional, because of government pressures and
market forces beyond the control of the Punan Hovongan.15
One current symptom of the conflicts is that no one knows who is stealing
from whose bird’s nest cave. The short-term profit takers from Central and East
Kalimantan, including middlemen and Chinese traders, and the short-term
profit seekers from local military and government agencies are imposing their
own priorities. Each party is trying whatever means it has to instigate disputes
for achieving its position. There are no clear regulations, nor is there any law
enforcement, regarding offences.
The analysis of the findings also suggests that obstacles to dispute settlement
are related to power imbalance and misuse of authority. The hamlet head, for
example, being a member of a group’s elite, was using his formal relationship
with the government to further his interests. As stated in Law No. 5 of 1979, the
hamlet head is at the lowest level of Indonesian administration, being at village
level. However, he also has direct access to formal authority and can make use of
this kind of relationship to impose his personal position upon other disputants,
namely, his own constituency and other people from outside the hamlet.
Possible structural interventions include defining clearly and changing the
role of each disputant. During the development of park management, for
example, each disputant should be invited regularly to establish a working group
for sustainable use of bird’s nest caves within and around the park. In line with
the current spirit of regional autonomy, this working group should be based at
Putussibau. One primary agenda of the working group will be to address
management problems and issues relative to the use of the bird’s nest caves for
171
the maximum benefit of all disputants. This working group should be written
into the park management structure.
A second intervention needed is the sanctioning of destructive behaviour in
the use of bird’s nest caves. Offences should be processed using fair regulations
and mutually acceptable decision-making processes. This should be done under
the guidance and monitoring of the working group. The ethics of access and the
rotational principle for collecting nests could be formally accepted by the state
and private sectors to protect both the bird’s nest resources and local claims for
joint bird’s nest management arrangements. In addition, the possibilities of
reallocating ownership or control of bird’s nest resources need to be gradually
brought to discussion.
A third intervention recommended is the replacement of the negotiating
process from positional to interest-based bargaining. The NGOs and other
elements of the civil society should promote the best possible authentic and
equitable dialogue under the existing inequitable conditions. Furthermore, the
working group should discuss the modification of the means of influence used by
outside parties; in other words, coercion must be eliminated. Coalitions with
other institutions working in similar situations are useful to strengthen the
concern and increase the influence of the ‘less powerful’ (i.e., the Punan groups).
The process of intervention, by itself, imposes constraints on the exercise of
excessive power by some groups or outsiders (Crowfoot and Wondolleck 1990).
The actual problem might be confronted in promoting this intervention. It can
bring to light the real economic and political biases of the central authority in
accepting environmental mediation (Amy 1983).
NGOs should initiate the mediation process while developing park management.
Considering time and physical constraints, those possible interventions should
ideally be elaborated and immediately tested in field sites. The initial experience
must be discussed and recorded by the working group at village level and at
Putussibau and Pontianak levels, respectively. Regional planning board meetings
(Rapat Koordinasi Pembangunan or Rakorbang) and the regional parliament are
useful in attracting a broader spectrum of stake-holders.
The lessons learned from this test-case mediation process should be modified
dynamically so that they can be used in other relevant cases of natural-resource
disputes. They will also be especially relevant in developing the first and the five-
year plans of the Master Management Plan of the park. A dynamic planning
process is required because conditions at local level and beyond are changing
quickly. Each management plan for a given area needs to incorporate the capacity
to adapt to changing conditions, namely, climate, population, economic and
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Nested Disputes
political conditions, and regional development in surrounding areas (McNeely

1995).
The proposed working group must be kept up to date with current information
regarding dispute areas. The non-governmental organisations doing mapping have
already been allowed to conduct participatory mapping on the distribution of bird’s
nest caves in and around the park. They are in the process of identifying conflict
areas. Visualisation of current nest collecting has to be used to encourage an open
discussion on dispute resolution. Learning more assertive negotiating skills will be
important for the Punan because, historically, they have tended to avoid open
conflict (Sellato 1994a). This conflict avoidance puts them at a disadvantage when
dealing with powerful outsiders, such as military and government personnel.
Resource management and ornithology specialists are needed to explore the
possibilities of developing a community-based bird’s nest management program.
Cross-visits to promising bird’s nest areas would be useful. Some possible sites are
the Bukit Kelam in Sintang District (West Kalimantan), Karang Bolong in
Central Java, or Niah Caves in Sarawak. This is important because a trend of
declining bird’s nest availability is revealed in the official data at the Forestry
office in Putussibau. If birds’ nests cannot be developed, the resulting situation
will be extremely detrimental to the Punan’s cash income and, therefore, their
welfare. The unintended consequence of this would be ‘encroachment’ into the
park area.
CONCLUSIONS
As noted by Dove (1996), the more resources are developed, the more likely
external political and economic forces will become involved, and the less likely the
indigenous inhabitants of the forest will retain control. Thus, the management of
birds’ nests may not be simply a technological and economic challenge. It may be
first a political challenge, involving the mediation of power relations between the
Punan, various outsiders, and the state. Therefore, a strategy for the resolution
of conflict over the management of birds’ nests has to be adopted in the broader
park planning process and management structure. It is recommended that a
working group on bird’s nest management, along with a strategy for participatory
mapping of the distribution of bird’s nest caves, be initiated by NGOs and other
appropriate groups in the civil society.
The role of NGOs and other elements of the civil society will be important
for empowering the Punan and developing their mode of livelihood. With respect
to the use and control of nest collecting, NGOs or other institutions working in
173
environmental dispute settlement must take a greater role in strengthening the

negotiating skills of the Punan. Training in resource-dispute settlement should
also be conducted for park personnel. Networking among NGOs and institutions
working in similar situations will be useful for achieving these goals.
The initiatives that I have suggested should result in a more effective approach
to bird’s nest management. Indigenous resource management practices and
rotational collecting principles (trep) can continue to provide a foundation for
community-based management, if recognised by the state and private sectors.
Continued leadership development and new institutional arrangements should
be tested at field sites for their relevance to joint management of park resources.
These strategies can improve the distribution of benefits from bird’s nest
collecting, the welfare of the Punan people, and the sustainability of the park as a
whole. This proposed scenario may also prove valid for other non-timber forest
products collected by the Punan. If these strategies are not taken into account,
benefits for the Punan may not be achieved under the current resource management
authority and, hence, the park may be subject to continued uncontrollable
encroachment.
The analysis of the findings on bird’s nest management also suggests that the
dialectical contest among the Punan, and between the Punan and outside entities,
for the control of bird’s nest resources, is evidence of political and economic
factors that may overpower biological and local-level social and cultural factors
in conservation and regional development.
NOTES
1. Birds’ nests refer to the nests made by species of swiftlets (Collocalia spp.; see Koon
and Cranbrook 2002). These nests are eaten in soups in Chinese restaurants. The
trade in edible birds’ nests goes back to the fourteenth century (for a history of this
trade with China, see Blussé 1991).
2. In Indonesia, Betung Kerihun National Park is the first conservation area designated
as a trans-boundary reserve (see Ngo 1996a). The park is managed in collaboration
with Lanjak-Entimau Wildlife Sanctuary and Batang Ai’ National Park in Sarawak,
Malaysia. A cooperation program between the Government of Indonesia and the
Government of Malaysia was initiated in 1993. Japan and Switzerland granted funds
through the International Timber Trade Organization (ITTO) towards establishing
the park. The Indonesian ministry of Agriculture and Forestry asked WWF
Indonesia to produce a management plan for the park.
3. This community resource mapping, a preliminary activity, was carried out prior to
a series of more detailed mapping projects related to the participatory park zonation
in village land use planning. In addition, Global Information System (GIS) facilities
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Nested Disputes
are being installed at the Provincial Planning Board (Bappeda Tingkat I Kalimantan
Barat).
4. Wariso, a sociologist, reported to the ministry of Social Affairs on the cultural
background and socio-economic conditions of the Punan at that time. Later,
Kartawinata wrote an ethnography of the Punan, based on research in the village of
Cempaka Baru. This publication, however, has some weaknesses, as the study site is
really not a Punan settlement, but rather a mixed Aoheng, Semukung, Bukat, and
Kantu’ settlement and, moreover, the author confused some important kinship and
economic terms used by the Punan with those of the Kantu’. Of greater relevance
is the publication by Sellato (1994a: 18–74), in which he describes the transition
of the Punan and Bukat to a more sedentary existence, in terms of economics and
politics.
5. Brosius (1995a) analyses patterns of collecting and trading forest products by Penan
hunter-gatherers in Sarawak and describes how these patterns vary through time
and space. Contrary to the Punan Hovongan case, he notes that the contemporary
trade dynamics of Penan in Malaysia are based largely on the contribution of
women. Langub (1996a) focuses on the variation of Penan responses to change and
development, particularly the dynamics of permanent residence imposed by the
Government of Malaysia.
6. Puhu’ was a common term adopted from the Kayan via the Aoheng, Seputan, and
Semukung. The term generally refers to an extended family or a group of extended
families having a common ancestor and acknowledging a genealogical link (Ngo
1996b, Sellato 1994a).
7. Lepu’un has several meanings. It refers to a former longhouse or settlement site, a
managed fruit-tree garden, or a former swidden field, with perennial crops such
as illipe nut or tengkawang (Shorea spp.). It has the same meaning as the terms
tembawang and tempalai among other Dayak groups in West Kalimantan (Ngo
1992, Padoch 1995).
8. Betusat is a general term for any decision-making process that is undertaken
within the village or band. Among other topics discussed, betusat may concern the
scheduling of farming or collecting activities. It has been observed, however, that
this traditional group meeting is gradually changing because of the segmentation of
Punan communities in response to internal and external forces.
9. It must be noted that the basic attitudes of the Punan and other Dayak groups
relative to shifting cultivation are not necessarily the same. The Punan are principally
collectors of forest products, which allows them to buy rice, whereas the goal of
many other Dayak groups is self-sufficiency in rice (B. Sellato, pers. comm.). This is
particularly true in the case of the Punan Hovongan, who largely depend on birds’
nests and other non-timber forest products to buy rice from other Dayak groups.
Thus, structural intervention regarding the conflict over nest resources and possible
resolutions regarding nested disputes are important for the future livelihood of the
Punan Hovongan. Therefore, community-based bird’s nest management is critical
to the park’s development.
10. The quantitative data on birds’ nests in Putussibau District must be viewed sceptically
and considered as tentative information. Many traders or middlemen are reluctant
175
to report to government agencies to avoid tax, unofficial revenue, and bribery. In

addition, there is much illegal trade in birds’ nests, which goes unreported.
11. In 1999, 1 kg of birds’ nests sold at the village fetched Rp. 400,000 (US$ 174).
The trader or middleman sold it at the Putussibau market for about Rp. 600,000
(US$ 261), a price accounted for by the fact that he must cover the cost of transport
– at least two days by longboat for one round trip. For the sake of comparison, see
Slamet et al. (1986) and Sellato (2002b: 60–62) for production and prices in East
Kalimantan in the early years of the bird’s nest boom.
12. There is a rumour that Pusat Koperasi Angkatan Darat (Puskopad, the Army’s
Cooperative Centre) is actually under the control of a private company led by Ari
Sigit Soeharto, a grandson of former President Soeharto.
13. On the breaking down of traditional social regulations and management practices at
the Niah Caves, Sarawak, due to high prices and the emergence of new, competitive
actors, see Gausset (2002; to be compared, for an earlier period, with Cranbrook
1984. For the Idahan of Sabah, however, Mohamed (1999) presents contrasting
evidence that, despite high demand, solidarity and social control have allowed the
villagers to maintain their exclusive access to the caves in their territory and the
sustainable exploitation of nests. On traditional groups’ conflict-ridden relations
with outsiders and the state over birds’ nests, see Sellato (2002b: 55–66); on the
emergence of extractivist practices among them due to competition with outsiders,
see Sellato (2005a); and on social and political changes historically triggered among
them by the bird’s nest trade, see Sellato (2005b).
14. The term for ‘ethics of access’ among the Penan in Sarawak, molong, can be roughly
glossed as the sustainable use of natural resources in view of further harvest at a
later time (Langub 1996a). It can also mean the fostering of resources for the future.
Punan molong all sorts of fruit trees, sago, rattan, and birds’ nests, which can be used
communally or individually. On the ‘ethics of access’ and the problem of ironwood
(Eusideroxylon zwageri) management, one can read Peluso’s study (1992) set in West
Kalimantan, where she noted that the government’s management strategies have
by-passed local people’s claims to ironwood because customary forest-management
institutions have not been formally recognised and supported. Private control has
taken precedence over common (village) control and the ethics of access have been
transformed.
15. It must be noted that this law was abolished in June 1999, after the fall of President
Soeharto. This was a fundamental correction to the Soeharto regime after a stay in
power of three decades. Therefore, in June 1999, the new ministry of Home Affairs
and Regional Autonomy issued Law No. 22 on Regional Government (Pemerintahan
Daerah), which gave wider room to the region to use specific local terms, including
indigenous and local institutions and governance arrangements. However, the effects
of the previous centralised government, e.g., the process of decay of indigenous power
structures, can still be felt in this transitional era throughout Kalimantan, and even
throughout Indonesia.
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Chapter 8
GAME, PETS, AND ANIMAL

HUSBANDRY AMONG PENAN
AND PUNAN GROUPS
By Stefan Seitz
Abstract: This chapter explores underlying motives of nomads’ attitudes towards

animals, as either game or pets, and their reluctance to eat the meat of animals they
have reared. It argues that, at the present time, no animal husbandry strategies can
be developed among nomads unless their attitudes and bonds with animals living
alongside humans undergo a fundamental shift.
INTRODUCTION
The subject of this article is relationships between men and animals, in particular
the behaviour of Penan and Punan groups both in keeping and killing animals.
It sets out to explain certain consequences of human attitudes towards animals
among hunters in their adaptation to a sedentary, farming existence. The
explanation offered here is based on ethnographic knowledge about former
foraging Penan and Punan, who have been gradually making the transition from
mobile hunters to settled farmers. The study tries to demonstrate how patterns of
Penan and Punan behaviour reflect their rather modest success in raising animals
on a domestic basis.
In the interaction of non-settled Penan and Punan foragers with animals,
certain specific behavioural patterns are recognisable, which are typical of
177
foraging approaches among non-specialised hunting and gathering societies.

These include the tendency to kill animals immediately after catching or
receiving them and to consume the meat of their game immediately following
the kill. This approach towards the utilisation of resources is based on an
economic strategy of ‘immediate return’ for the labour (Woodburn 1980: 99)
or ‘the immediate use of food resources’ (Testart 1982: 523), whereby the major
portion of the food supply is consumed the day on which it is acquired. Normally,
Penan and Punan do not store food; in general, storing would hamper the
mobility of a group. As Puri (1997a: 406 fn. 8) has noted, however, Penan can
store raw meat in flowing waters for up to three days, keep smoke-dried meat for
as long as one week, and mix meat with sago flour that can last up to six months.
Occasionally, for short periods, they also keep wild boar fat, which makes up a
high percentage of their calorie input (Brosius 1991a: 145), and smoked fish,
besides non-animal products such as nuts and honey (B. Sellato, pers. comm.;
P. Sercombe, pers. comm.).
Associated with this immediacy of consumption is the principle of the
virtually obligatory reciprocal sharing of food equally among members of a local
group. Meat is generally distributed among community members immediately it
is brought into a camp. For Penan and Punan alike, distribution among a group
also applies in the case of plant foods, in particular with regard to sago (Arnold
1958: 64; Harrisson 1949a: 137; Puri 1997a: 333). This has been characterised
as sharing ‘with scrupulous equality’ (Needham in this volume) and as a ‘semi-
communistic’ attitude towards property (Nicolaisen 1976a), even though sharing
is never entirely equitable among these groups, because the hunter nearly always
gets the best parts (R. Puri, pers. comm.), which is his privilege. However, this
modus operandi is confined to perishable items (basically foodstuffs) and does not
include permanent personal or household possessions.
In contrast to the above behaviour, the economics of farming life demand
long-term planning and the necessity of waiting for the harvest or produce. Thus,
in agrarian cultures, relations with animals are oriented more towards maintenance
and reproduction, and slaughter of the stock when necessary. In agricultural
societies a reciprocal division of food is no longer essential in order to secure
sustenance. In pastoral societies, above and beyond the economic behaviour of
farming, the economically oriented thoughts and actions of a community tend
to be focused on increasing the size of herds.
However, a typical behavioural pattern of hunters towards animals includes
the reservation not to kill wild or domestic animals if they have been kept or bred
for a sustained period in a hunting and gathering group as pets, a consequence
178
Game, Pets, and Animal Husbandry
of which is that the meat of these animals does not become available as a
consumable resource. In the same way, farmers often also do not kill wild animals
and consume their meat if they have been retained as pets. However, an important
point is that hunters tend to transfer this behaviour to the practice of animal
husbandry.
Animals that have not been killed when caught but retained as pets can be
seen, in the view of both foragers and farmers, to correspond with human beings
in their behaviour and may be included in the human social environment. Thus,
animals may come to be viewed anthropomorphically and be attributed human
qualities. Consequently, the differences between humans and animals are
repressed. Killing and eating such creatures may well become socially and
psychologically unacceptable (see Serpell 1996: xiii, xiv, xix). Through the
emotional attachment that develops between humans and animals over a period
of time, the typical need and desire of hunters to kill animals living in the
community for meat consumption is likely to be extinguished.
A hunter’s view of the animal world may be more than just an economic one.
Thus, in contrast to traditional farming societies, certain hunter-gatherers’
behavioural patterns may be based on special relationships that can arise between
men and animals. These relationships may determine the idea of a sense of
equality between man and animal. However, it can be observed that little
consideration has been given to the issue of pet-keeping in tribal societies (Serpell
1996: 66). Ethnographic observations of interaction between humans and
animals, especially in hunting societies, have seldom been recorded and this
behaviour has rarely been analysed. In regard to this theme complex, most
notably Serpell (1996) has taken this up in his work, In the Company of Animals,
but he did not focus on hunting and gathering societies.
As is the case with regard to many hunting and gathering societies, the
literature on Penan and Punan relationships with animals has been given scant
attention. Consideration has remained limited essentially to the idea of animals
as game, and thereby their utility as a food resource. The bonding that may
occur with animals, that Penan and Punan traditionally used for their food
supply, especially those kept in communities as pets, has only been mentioned
peripherally. An article, for example, by Hose and McDougall (1901) on the
topic of ‘The relations between men and animals in Sarawak,’ concentrated
essentially on the religious implications of animals and was, in addition, primarily
focused on the behaviour of Kenyah people as settled farmers.
The keeping of pets per se seems to arise largely from the pleasure,
entertainment, and comfort that can be gained from the company of animals,
179
besides which small wild animals are also occasionally given to children as living
toys and, in interacting with them, gain experience of fauna (e.g., Laughlin 1968:
309; and Serpell 1996: 68). The close bond with animals and their acceptance
within a human community also show a readiness to provide food for animals,
since pets need to be fed.
For Penan and Punan, adaptation to a predominantly agricultural economy
and thus a sedentary way of life, such a behavioural pattern as the tendency towards
the immediate killing of game (at the time of capture), as well as the inhibition
against killing animals that have been adopted and kept in the community of
humans, can have a counter-innovative effect. An outcome is the difficulty of
achieving a successful adoption of and adaptation to animal husbandry practices.
Nonetheless, the implementation and maintenance of these practices are a necessary
prerequisite for securing an adequate supply of protein by shifting to a sedentary
lifestyle.
The reorientation from the utilisation of animals as game, with a strong
inclination to kill them immediately and consume their meat soon after, to the
keeping of animals and their acceptance as livestock for slaughter at a later date,
necessitates giving up certain traditional behavioural patterns and practices: the
killing principle at the climax of the hunt (if this is viable in the context of a
chase), on the one hand, and the inhibition against killing, which tends to result
from the emotional bonding with animals after sustained contact, on the other.
Moreover, reorientation also demands giving up the game hunter’s view of an
animal as a resource for immediate consumption. For Penan and Punan, then,
the transition from a hunter’s to a farmer’s means of subsistence requires a
fundamental reorientation in their relationships with animals. Serpell (1996: 5)
associates this process of the domestication of animals with the need for the
hunter to relinquish the idea of equality in status between man and animal.
However, the abandonment of this perception in settling almost inevitably takes
longer than the time required to make the transition to technological-economic
adaptation. For many Penan and Punan, persistence of traditional thought, in
this regard, tends to continue for a recognisably significant period.
RESPONSIBILITY AND SENSITIVITY IN THE

TREATMENT OF ANIMALS
Close bonds with and respect for animals are expressed in the way Penan and
Punan proceed with a hunt. As a general rule, they kill only as many animals as
are required to satisfy their short-term food needs. Any danger to game stocks
180
comes much less, or not at all, from Penan and Punan, but rather from outsiders.
Utilising traditional low-impact hunting techniques, Penan and Punan hunting
activities have negligible effects on the ecological balance of fauna in areas where
they reside. Langub (1989: 176–177) emphasises that, with traditional hunting
methods, the number of game animals in environments inhabited by Penan in
Sarawak remain relatively stable.
The apparent decline in the ease of capturing game, such as wild boar (Sus
barbatus) and Sambar deer (Cervus unicolor), the two species principally preferred
by Penan and Punan along with other Dayak, is due largely to the activities of
other people, particularly loggers residing in upriver areas, and groups from
downriver (often) coastal areas. These ‘outsiders’ hunt upstream for commercial
reasons, using refrigerated containers to preserve meat, which is largely transported
and sold to Chinese restaurants in urban areas. In fact, this practice is now
prohibited by law in Sarawak, but legal restraints have been imposed
retrospectively, largely as a reaction to the consequences of excessive hunting.
There remains the issue of habitat destruction of indigenous fauna caused by
widespread logging. As a rule, Penan and Punan have not overexploited these
animal populations, even if they also seek animals that do not primarily provide
them with meat, but rather with materials, such as horns, feathers, and gallstones
(particularly bezoar stones), and these are acquired in order to sell, although in
some cases certain animals may be sold as pets.
Certainly, there are examples that demonstrate the involvement of Penan and
Punan in the decline of local game populations. The extinction of certain animal
species, such as the rhinoceros (Dicerorhinus sumatrensis), which was still hunted
in the Baram River area until the time of the Japanese invasion, or wild cattle
(banteng, Bos javanicus), which were still to be found on the Upper Limbang in
the nineteenth century (Hanbury-Tenison and Jermy 1979: 187; see also
Harrisson 1975b) and are still occasionally found today in parts of Kalimantan,
may be partially attributable to the hunting activities of Penan and Punan in
Sarawak. In the upper Rejang River area, these two species of animals were
hunted to extinction primarily by the Kayan and Iban, for example, according to
reports of the Penan Gang and Penan Lusong (Urquhart 1951a: 531). Kayan,
Kenyah and Iban may have traded the horns and participated in hunting
expeditions, often led by Penan and Punan guides as mentioned in Penan
and Kenyah oral history accounts (R. Puri, pers. comm.). It is also likely that
Punan in Kalimantan bear some responsibility for the near extinction of the
rhinoceros, which they hunted in order to acquire and sell certain parts to
Chinese for medicinal purposes (B. Sellato, pers. comm.). Another example
181
attributes responsibility to the Punan Tubu for the increasing rarity of the Straw-
headed bulbul (Pycnonotus zeylanicus), which has long been in demand as a song
bird, and which reflects the wealth and social status of the owner (Puri 1999).
This species is disappearing rapidly from the Tubu Region of Kalimantan, as
well as from other areas of Borneo.
The introduction of modern hunting weapons has so far only brought major
changes to a minority of Penan in the Rejang area, and the adoption of firearms
has clearly allowed for the acquisition of more game and thus more meat
(Nicolaisen 1976b: 50–51). In the Baram area, Anderson (1979: 212) noted
explicitly, however, that the use of firearms by Berawan, Kenyah, Kelabit, Murut,
and Iban represented a much greater danger for the game population than that
posed by Penan, largely because the former groups are greater in number, have
more money to spend on ammunition, and own a much larger number of guns
per head of population than any Penan group in Borneo. In addition, Penan in
remote districts often have considerable difficulty in obtaining ammunition for
their firearms (Langub 1989: 176), notwithstanding the actual cost of bullets.
Many Penan in the Mount Mulu National Park area of Sarawak were still using
blowguns predominantly, at the end of the 1970s (Kedit 1982: 232), and continue
to do so. Puri (1997a: 324–341) gives a very detailed description of two kinds of
hunting techniques using the blowpipe, involving either stalking or ambush, still
widely practised today, by the Penan Benalui in East Kalimantan.
There is also evidence that, in some cases, Penan and Punan themselves have
been trying indirectly to preserve game populations. Langub (1989: 177) reported
the case of an old Penan from the Magoh River area of north-eastern Sarawak,
who explained that his community consciously spared trees yielding fruit that
were food for wild boar.
Penan and Punan traditionally do not and never have killed any game or
livestock for sacrificial purposes, in contrast to the practices of Dayak (Hose and
McDougall 1912, II: 84–85). In rare cases where sacrificial acts are observed by
Penan or Punan, they have almost certainly been adopted and, in these events,
only domestic rather than wild animals are sacrificed. A number of semi-settled
Punan groups have borrowed rituals, particularly those of the rice cycle, and do
sacrifice chickens (often during the rice harvest festival), in the same way as do
Dayak groups. The meat of sacrificial animals is consumed by members of the
group, whether they be Penan, Punan, or Iban (P. Sercombe and B. Sellato, pers.
comm.). Among the Kereho-Busang, in Central Kalimantan, pigs may be ritually
cleansed and sacrificed as part of a marriage ceremony between first cousins
(Sellato 1989: 128), a practice most likely to have been adopted from Seputan
182
groups. It should be added that sacrifices are also performed, not only with
chickens and pigs, but also with cows, which have occasionally been raised by
sedentary Penan or Punan, but these are extremely rare occurrences.
A direct ban against killing and eating omen animals did exist among Penan
and Punan (see Hose and McDougall 1901: 195; Needham in this volume).
Before the adoption of Christianity, the Punan Tubu regarded the Slow loris
(Nycticebus coucang), tarsier (Tarsius bancanus), Yellow barking deer (Muntiacus
atherodes), Common palm civet (Paradoxurus hermaphroditus), and Tufted
ground squirrel (Rheithrosciurus macrotis) as omen animals or message bearers
from spirits or ghosts. The presence of these animals was perceived as a potential
sign of impending danger or catastrophe. While the Yellow barking deer, civet,
and squirrel are hunted today, the rules of conduct with respect to the loris
and tarsier have been maintained, and these animals are not intentionally
killed in the Tubu Region or in other parts of the interior of East Kalimantan.
Many Punan still believe that, when someone is bitten by a loris (not a common
occurrence), this can cause death, in addition to believing that the tarsier is a
ghost (Puri 1998a). Penan and Punan omen creatures can also include birds,
such as the Bat hawk (Macheramphus alcinus), the Maroon woodpecker
(Blythipicus rubiginosus), and the Banded kingfisher (Laceda pulchella), which,
depending on a number of factors such as direction of flight, may augur either
good or bad events (Chen 1990: 17).
In general, among Penan and Punan groups, as in most hunter and gatherer
cultures, kept animals are usually treated sympathetically, and Urquhart (1959:
82) noted that Penan and Punan treated their pets with consideration. However,
Arnold (1958: 63) mentioned the case of a young animal used by children among
the Penan on the Plieran in the upper Rejang basin to practise hunting.
He observed how a wild piglet was bound with a piece of rattan on the sinews of
the hind leg, in order to permit the boys to use it as a live target for spear-
throwing practice, and a similar observation has been made by R. Puri (pers.
comm.).
Hunting dogs fulfil very different practical functions among human
communities and are not comparable with pets acquired from the wild. It is
worth briefly considering the attitudes of Penan and Punan toward dogs, as in
the literature some notions of Penan and Punan relationships with these creatures
can be found. Many Penan and Punan groups keep dogs, as do Dayak farmers,
and they are kept in the main for hunting purposes. Hunting dogs play an
important role in tracking and holding game at bay when hunting, either
with spears or firearms (Hildebrand 1982: 284–288; Brosius 1991a: 145, 1993a:
183
521–522; and Puri 1997a: 342–356). However, when using a blowgun, which is
still in wide use today (e.g., in the upper Baram area of Sarawak), dogs can
actually be a hindrance, as the blowgun cannot viably be used on running game;
the hunter must approach and sneak up very close to an animal, and the noise of
one or more dogs may well alert the game to a threatening presence. Some Penan
(e.g., the Penan in Brunei) have shifted their hunting methods to employ traps
for catching game, as a result of which they rarely use dogs for hunting any more
(P. Sercombe, pers. comm.).
In fact, the use of hunting dogs is likely to be a relatively recent feature of
Penan and Punan culture, and one which was adopted from Dayak, a point
echoed by a number of authors (Hose and McDougall 1912, I: 145; Nicolaisen
1976b: 46; Hildebrand 1982: 287; and Brosius 1993a: 521–522). For at least the
last 100–150 years, however, the importance of the hunting dog among Penan
and Punan groups has been documented, although the times at which these
animals became functioning assets vary for different groups (Sellato 1989: 82,
185).
Penan and Punan hunting dogs are often highly esteemed by settled Dayak
in Central Borneo and in East Kalimantan. Certain Penan groups have a
reputation for being very successful in breeding hunting dogs, and Kayan,
Kenyah and Iban have been known to seek hunting dogs from Penan communities
(Nieuwenhuis 1907: 316; Harrisson 1965a: 68, 83). It has also been reported
that Penan barter their dogs to Malaysian dealers (Harrisson 1949a: 144).
Furthermore, Nicolaisen (1976a; see also Puri 1999) noted that Penan knowledge
and experience with hunting with dogs are praised by other ethnic groups,
although in general terms they are not known to be as consistent breeders as are
settled Dayak.
Dogs are widely regarded by Penan and Punan (as well as other groups) as
valuable property. The high adaptability and potential faithfulness of dogs tend
to enhance their relationships with their owners, and this is characterised by the
manner in which they are treated not just as a functional resource but also as pets
(Harrisson 1965a, Rubenstein 1990: 161; Serpell 1996: 69). Urquhart (1951a:
531–532; and 1959: 81–82) believed that, among the Penan Gang and Penan
Lusong, dogs were much better treated than by Iban, and that the Punan Busang
loved their dogs like their children and let them sleep under mosquito nets in the
home. Nevertheless, the treatment of dogs can vary widely among Penan and
Punan groups, often depending on their personal economic circumstances. Some
groups are reluctant to cull dog litters, with the result being hordes of underfed
dogs, which may be ignored or maltreated (Arnold 1958: 63; Chen 1990: 24–25)
184
and left to die, especially if they are old or diseased, with only some being actually
used for hunting. Other groups do cull litters and only keep a few healthy dogs,
and these are generally both fed well and treated favourably. As far as is known,
Eastern Penan do not cull litters of dogs or domestic cats at all (P. Sercombe,
pers. comm.), although keeping cats has only been rarely reported (see Kedit
1982: 232; and Sellato 1989: 122). Overall, similar attitudes towards dogs can
also be found among the Kenyah of Central Borneo, among whom Hose and
McDougall (1901: 187) reported that dogs can be perceived as children and that
they eat and sleep with longhouse dwellers under the same roof.
A high esteem for dogs is also found among other tropical rain forest hunters.
Among, for example, the Southeast Asian Negritos, in particular the Agta in
Northeast Luzon, in the Philippines, dogs may be the exclusive property of the
head of a family (Peterson 1978: 22; and Griffin 1984: 107–108). Similarly,
among the Rhwa in the eastern Congo, possession of a hunting dog brings
considerable social prestige (Seitz 1977: 75). It has also been reported that the
Andaman islanders have an especially high regard for hunting dogs introduced
by Europeans (Cipriani 1966: 80–83). Despite some contrary representations
(e.g., Serpell 1996: 70), it can also be noted for Central African Pygmies that
their dogs are ‘treated affectionately by their owners’ (Heymer 1995: 196–198).
In all, it seems that dogs are valued not only as an additional resource in the
search for and acquisition of animal proteins by hunter-gatherers but that they
are particularly appreciated for the ways in which they appear to develop lasting
relationships with their keepers.
KEEPING OF PETS AND THE INHIBITION AGAINST

KILLING AND EATING PET ANIMALS
It has been documented that various monkey species hunted by a number of
nomadic Penan and Punan groups are apparently only rarely taken as game, and
are more often kept as pets. For Penan in the Mount Mulu area of Sarawak, Kedit
(1982: 232) noted that families from the villages of Tepoh Basong and Long
Iman adopt monkeys. Urquhart (1959: 81–82) had previously commented that
Penan in the Baram River area of Sarawak also often kept monkeys as pets. Chen
(1990: 41) mentioned that it was not unusual to see Penan women breastfeeding a
baby monkey or a suckling wild boar. Rubenstein (1990: 169, 173, 175) described
how she was given a little monkey as a present by Penan of Long Apu (in the
Baram area), which had been found abandoned in the forest. She, in turn, gave
the animal to the local village school, where it was kept on a rattan leash and fed
185
milk by the school children. When the animal died, it was mourned. Gibbons
(Hylobates muelleri) are also kept as pets (see Harrisson 1949a: 141, and 1965a: 71;
Hildebrand 1982: 294) and are known for their gentle, unaggressive nature.
There is no report among Penan or Punan, however, that primates are seen to
resemble humans physically, to the extent that it would be considered cannibalistic
to eat them, as is the view of some Pygmy groups of Central Africa (Seitz 1977:
67). Penan and Punan do, in fact, often eat the meat of hunted monkeys, even
though they are not generally preferred game (Kedit 1982: 240).
One of the most likely ways in which a wild animal becomes a pet is when its
parents have been killed for food, and this might include creatures as diverse as
the sun bear (Helarctos malayanus) and wild pig (see, for example, Arnold 1958:
63, regarding the Penan Plieran). When Penan or Punan hunters keep wild
animals as pets, these come to be regarded as members of the community, and
taboos thus arise against killing those species which would otherwise normally
be hunted for food, even when communities are suffering from food shortages
(Urquhart 1951a: 513; Manser 1992: 29). As can be imagined, these captured
animals can become impractical to keep as they become fully mature, although
many do not actually survive long in captivity.
Birds are also widely sought after as pets. Urquhart (1959: 82) observed in the
Baram River area how Penan had marked a tame Rhinoceros hornbill (Buceros
rhinoceros) bird with a red ribbon, so as not to kill it by mistake as it flew through
the jungle. And when Harrisson visited a community of Punan Busang, they
kept three such birds as ‘free-flying pets’ (Harrisson 1965a: 71). Nevertheless,
birds are also considered wild game, although they contribute little to the food
supply, due to the generally small amount of meat they provide. Exceptions are
forest fowls and a few large hornbill birds, which are often hunted at times when
forest products are being gathered. Among certain Penan groups (e.g., those in
Brunei), adult hornbill birds are eaten, but these are not preferred food; rather,
they are consumed when nothing else is available (P. Sercombe, pers. comm.).
Many captured animals, particularly birds, are kept as pets by settled groups.
Hose and McDougall (1901: 180) recorded that Kenyah in the Baram area of
north-eastern Sarawak occasionally kept hornbill birds as pets in their longhouses.
Penan and Punan exploit this preference by procuring birds to sell to their settled
neighbours, and certain species are captured solely for the purpose of selling,
e.g., bulbuls, especially the Straw-headed bulbul, as they are believed to be great
songbirds. Puri (1999) and Kedit (1982: 232) have both dealt with the issue of
animal trading between nomadic groups and settled peoples in parts of
Kalimantan and Sarawak, respectively.
186
A number of reasons have been invoked to try and explain inhibitions against
killing and eating captured animals, including economic-rational hypotheses,
symbolic interpretations, and ideas rooted in religious beliefs. But these usually
pertain only to individual animal species and to specific hunting and gathering
groups. Among Penan and Punan, with the exception of prohibitions against
killing and eating omen species which they share with Dayak farmers, religious
constraints are not discernible. While little is known of Penan and Punan
traditional beliefs, it is understood that the spiritually-oriented convictions that
they hold are often adopted from groups with whom they live in proximity.
However, their inhibitions against consuming animals that they keep beyond
the point of capture have largely to do with their world view.
Harris (1985: 176–178) postulated that, whether sedentary farmers or nomads,
a close relationship between man and animals does not need to be a factor in the
inhibition against killing and eating the same creatures. This holds for his
examples of pigs in Melanesian cultures, as well as cattle in certain Northeast
African cultures, in which these animals are highly esteemed but nonetheless
eaten. However, hunter-gatherer cultures, as well as those in transition or having
made the transition to a sedentary existence, are characterised by markedly
different attitudes towards animals. Furthermore, in Harris’ comparisons (1985:
179–186) between Polynesians and North American Indians explaining the
inhibition against eating dogs as being a result of the continued availability of
these animals for work, the cultural differences between Polynesians, as farmers,
and Indians, living largely as hunters and gatherers, are not considered. This
inhibition is viewed not as based on the fact that animals are kept as pets, but
rather as due to the availability of adequate meat supplies. Harris (1985) has
pointed out, in comparing Polynesians who eat dogs, with Indians of North
America who usually do not eat dog meat, that North Americans had greater
access to wild game. It made little sense for Indians, who needed and used dogs
for hunting, to eat them while, for those Indians who did eat dog, this animal
was not important for the hunt. Harris (1985: 176) sees the issue conversely,
i.e., not whether a pet may be eaten, but rather: ‘[…] whether an animal that is
part of a people’s regular cuisine can still be a pet.’
THE RELUCTANCE OF SETTLED NOMADS

TO EAT MEAT FROM LIVESTOCK
Not only the meat of pets but also that of domestic animals is generally not
consumed by Penan and Punan. It is claimed here that if livestock is kept for a
187
sustained period, then for the Penan and Punan this will have a psychological-
emotional impact, preventing their owners from slaughtering them. This issue
remains for the most part neglected in the discussion of the adjustment of hunter-
gatherers to a sedentary existence.
Meat from domestic animals is not eaten by non-sedentary Punan and Penan
hunters. Harrisson (1949a: 143) reported that Penan of the Magoh River area
(in north-eastern Sarawak) ate neither the meat of cattle nor that of domestic
pigs, goats, or chickens, while other Penan, e.g., those of the nearby Apoh River
area, apparently did not follow these constraints. For some Penan families in the
Mount Mulu National Park area, fowl and pork were not eaten, although this
inhibition did not pertain to all families (Kedit 1982: 241) and may have been to
do with their acceptance of norms held by adjacent settled peoples.
Hose and McDougall (1901: 195) claimed that the refusal of Penan to eat
meat from a domestic pig was based on their being too unaccustomed to this
meat, since ‘[t]hey know nothing of it, it is strange to them.’ Connected with this
is the issue of the meat’s taste (Huehne 1959–1960: 202; Sellato 1989: 224), such
that people unfamiliar with the flavour of domestic animals’ flesh take time to
adjust to its flavour and accept it as part of their diet, but this may not be the
principal factor. The same attitude is also demonstrated by some Penan groups
towards meat from certain wild animals, whose taste they may generally find
unpalatable. Thus, some Penan families have reported that they do not like the
meat of mousedeer (Tragulus javanicus and T. napu), since ‘it is too smelly to be
edible,’ and Penan in Long Iman (near Mount Mulu) have cited the same reason
for not eating wild cats, the moonrat (Echinosorex gymnurus) (Kedit 1982: 241),
or wild cattle (banteng), whose meat tastes too strong for some Penan (P. Sercombe
and B. Sellato, pers. comm.).
Meat from livestock is also not eaten by settled Penan and Punan. Normally,
former hunters and gatherers, who have become sedentary, only rarely keep any
kind of animals for any length of time. For the most part, these are slaughtered
when caught, a practice deriving from traditional hunting practices, which
require, for economic reasons (such as not having to feed these creatures with
food needed for other members of the community), as well as practical reasons
(such as the sheer effort of restraining large wild animals), that animals are killed
immediately following capture.
Many Penan and Punan traditionally refused to eat the meat of pigs and
chickens that they had received as presents or had kept themselves. In the same
fashion, similar behaviour towards domestic animals can also be observed for
many now sedentary Penan and Punan. Urquhart (1959: 82) reported that
188
settled Penan in the Baram River basin treated their small numbers of domestic
animals affectionately and refused to eat chickens or domesticated pigs, arguing
that ‘[o]ur pigs and chickens are as friendly to us as dogs. If you eat your pigs,
why do you not eat your dogs when they are of no further use for hunting?’.
Nowadays, a great number of sedentary Penan and Punan have come to adopt
the habit of keeping chickens and pigs. Sellato (1989: 122, 224) has mentioned
that, in shifting from processing sago to cultivating rice, a shift to the rearing
and keeping of domestic animals has simultaneously occurred among, for
example, Punan on the Mahakam and Kapuas Rivers of Kalimantan, and that
pig and chicken were introduced to the Kereho-Busang in the upper Mahakam
River area along with the adoption of agriculture as a consequence of intermarriage
with Seputan people (Sellato 1989: 125). For Penan in the Baram River area of
Sarawak, when settling in the 1960s (Langub 1972b: 84, 1974b: 94), and for
some settled Penan in the Belaga District (Kedit 1982: 232), chicken and also
duck rearing was observed.
It is worth noting that when settled Penan and Punan have been seen to keep
domestic animals, but not as pets, these were more often intended for sale rather
than for domestic consumption. Given what is known of Penan and Punan
reluctance to slaughter animals not obtained through hunting, it becomes
understandable that sedentary Penan and Punan might keep chickens and
occasionally pigs to resell them at a later date. Kedit (1982: 232) observed this
among Penan families in the Mount Mulu area of Sarawak, and Anderson (1979:
212) also noticed that Penan of the Pelutan River (a tributary of the Baram) kept
chickens to sell to Kayan, who purchased them at below the usual market price.
Penan in the Belaga area of Sarawak have also been observed only rarely to
slaughter their chickens for food, while barter-trading them with merchants
(Langub 1974b: 94). Sellato (1989: 224) has also reported, for certain groups of
settled Punan in Kalimantan, that some raise chickens, while a few (e.g., the
Bukat) keep cattle, with neither being intended for domestic consumption, but
rather for sale. Consequently, an advantage of small-scale animal husbandry can
be seen as the convertibility of animals into commerical goods, rather than in
their utilisation as a meat source.
Of course, the keeping of animals could be of major economic benefit to
Penan and Punan, especially during a process of transition from hunting to
farming, and particularly, given the reduction in available wild species in the
rainforest due to widespread logging and excessive hunting by ‘outsiders’. One
might possibly find an economic profit in pets if they became economically
utilitarian animals and thereby serve as a live food resource, even when this was
189
not originally intended (see, e.g., Volkhausen 1994: 321–322). In the case of
Penan and Punan, this presently seems rather unlikely.
The economic rationale for slaughtering animals for immediate-return
benefits, along with the sociopsychological-emotional attitudes of Penan and
Punan in keeping animals have so far made it difficult for them to establish
animal husbandry practices for the purpose of providing meat, even though this
is obviously one significant strategy for securing dietary protein requirements.
Thus, it is typical that Punan from Long Pada in Kalimantan go hunting daily,
even though they keep chickens. Also, Punan who are settled in villages on the
middle Tubu of Kalimantan still satisfy their protein requirements from wild
game (Puri 1998a). However, Puri (ibid.) had the impression that Punan who
lived closer to Malinau town, because of the great expenditure of time needed to
journey to the good hunting grounds near the Tubu River were, in contrast,
forced to resort to keeping chickens. Chicken and fish are cheaper and more
accessible protein sources and thus more economically important for them than
game meat. Fish, traditionally not a primary protein source for many Penan and
Punan groups, has become an essential source of protein with the onset of
settlement, and with the decline in the availability of wild boar and other larger
sources of protein.
Associated with becoming sedentary, domestic animal keeping has become
an important factor regarding the hygienic conditions of a settlement. Punan
and Penan who tend to keep neither pigs nor chickens have no scavengers to
consume rubbish in their settlements, thus their refuse remains around the camp
(Arnold 1958: 57; Morrison 1976: 307–308), while for Dayak pigs and chickens
not only provide meat but help to eliminate waste matter, even though a settlement
located in the rainforest can be kept clean by wild scavengers, such as civet cats
and ants (R. Puri, pers. comm.).
Naturally, the keeping of small animals limits the mobility of Penan and
Punan (Sellato 1989: 224), or any group for that matter. As a result, some Penan
and Punan have used this as an argument against animal keeping, maintaining
that in an emergency situation in which farming the land had to be abandoned
in favour of a return to hunting and gathering, domestic animal keeping would
be a hindrance to them. Sellato (1989: 214) has suggested that, depending on the
situation, many Penan and Punan remain ready to abandon rice cultivation and
return to the rainforest. This is evidenced not only by statements from Penan but
also by the arrangement of many homes, in which belongings may be permanently
stacked in a corner of a family apartment, adjacent to bags, in readiness for a
quick departure (see Sercombe in this volume).
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CONCLUSIONS
In conclusion, the reasons for the apparent lack of interest of Penan and Punan
in keeping domestic animals, which has been widely noted (e.g., Harrisson
1949a: 143; Urquhart 1951a: 513; Huehne 1959–1960: 202; Sellato 1989:
224), becomes comprehensible to the observer. It is indicative that Nicolaisen
(1976b), who studied the economic transition to farming for individual groups
in the Seventh Division of Sarawak along the Rejang River, mentions nothing
of animal keeping. He specifies fishing as a replacement for hunting, with the
decline in available game.
An additional factor is that for farming neighbours (e.g., Kenyah, Kayan, and
other Dayak), who might be seen to act as a model for domestic animal keeping,
this practice generally only plays a subordinate role in their economies. For many
Dayak groups, chickens and eggs may be primarily sacrificial animals and
offerings. Similarly, pigs are sacrificial animals for special religious and social
occasions, such as weddings or harvest festivals. Hose and McDougall (1901:
182–183; 1912, II: 64–65) suggested that Kenyah, for example, kill neither
domestic pigs nor chickens simply to obtain meat, but that the slaughtering of
these animals always represented a religious or symbolic act of some kind.
Likewise, the Benuaq of East Kalimantan kill and eat pigs, chickens, and buffalos
only in ritual contexts (C. Gönner, pers. comm.).
Thus it becomes understandable why, in shifting to a sedentary lifestyle,
Penan and Punan have been hampered in the keeping of animals by a range of
factors. It seems that only under severe economic stress are they willing to alter
this aspect of their behaviour. For most sedentary Penan and Punan, protein
needs can still be satisfied by hunting, fishing and, in certain cases, the purchase
of protein foods. Only when these options are not available or are exhausted
might Penan give up their reluctance to slaughter domestic animals. As with
other hunting and gathering groups, it can be seen that the transition by Penan
and Punan to sedentary farming, part of which includes the practice of animal
keeping, is not necessarily to their economic benefit.
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Chapter 9
HISTORY AND THE PUNAN

VUHANG : RESPONSE TO ECONOMIC
AND RESOURCE TENURE CHANGE
By Henry Chan
Abstract: This chapter examines the recent history of the Punan Vuhang community
of Sarawak, focusing, in particular, on changes in their economic and resource tenure
systems. Based primarily on oral testimony, it reconstructs the major events that have
affected the livelihood of the community over the last 100 years. At the turn of
the twentieth century, in order to retain their freedom as a hunting and gathering
people, the forefathers of the present Punan Vuhang left their ancestral territory to
avoid being subjugated by expansionistic agricultural peoples, notably Kayan and
Iban. Towards the end of the 1960s, the elders and parents of the present generation
opted to become sedentary and abandon their traditional belief system in order to
adopt an agricultural economy. This shift in economic orientation led to the creation
of a new form of resource tenure adapted for cultivation. Today, the Punan Vuhang
brace themselves for the impending effects of the logging industry, and face a severe
crisis of non-recognition of their resource tenure by the Sarawak state’s legal system.
A SKETCH OF PUNAN VUHANG HISTORY

In 1995, the Punan Vuhang community numbered 70 persons. Its members
lived in two longhouse blocks in Long Lidem, located on the Kajang, a tributary
of the Balui, over a mile upriver from Belaga town, in the Kapit Division of
192
History and the Punan Vuhang
Sarawak (see Map 9.1). The Punan Vuhang are linguistically related to the
Bhuket and Sihan and are sometimes referred to in the ethnographic literature
as the Punan Busang (Brosius 1988b, Ellis 1972 and 1975, Harrisson 1965a and
1965b, Huehne 1959–1960, Langub 1973 and 1974a, Lim 1989, Martin 1972
and 1975, Nicolaisen 1976b, Oldrey 1972, Rousseau 1990: 133, Sellato 1994a,
Sloan 1972 and 1975, Urquhart 1951a, Wilson 1972 and 1975).
Early History
Prior to the nineteenth century, before the expansion of the Kayan into Punan
country, the ancestors of the present day Punan Vuhang consisted of three
groups: the Punan Vuhang, the Punan Tekalet, and the Punan Nuo. While the
Punan Nuo were on good terms with the others, the Punan Vuhang and Punan
Tekalet are said to have used spirits to attack each other. In the 1800s, when the
Kayan expanded into the lands of the Punan Tekalet in the lower part of the
Balui, conflicts flared as the Punan Tekalet attacked the newcomers. The Punan
Tekalet even attacked Kayan who visited them for peaceful trading. The Kayan
retaliated and, by virtue of their political cohesion and greater numbers, sought,
through systematic warfare, to eliminate the Punan Tekalet.
The Punan Tekalet found refuge with the Punan Vuhang, who enjoyed a
close relationship with the Kayan owing to a legendary adoption of the brother
of an early Kayan chief by the Punan Vuhang.1 While under Punan Vuhang
protection, the Punan Tekalet hoped that the Kayan would not attack them.
Since they themselves were on troubled terms with the Punan Vuhang, they
drew in the Punan Nuo, who suffered no animosity against the Punan Vuhang,
to join them in seeking refuge. In this way, the Punan Tekalet were assured that
the Punan Vuhang would not be aggressive towards them. Believing that they
would become targets of Kayan revenge following the escape of the Punan
Tekalet, the two groups fled together to the territory of the Punan Vuhang.
The Punan Tekalet offered their women to their hosts in marriage, so binding
the Punan Vuhang to protect them.
After many years of peace, intertribal warfare resumed. Decades after the
Kayan left the Apau Kayan Plateau of Kalimantan in the 1800s, the area became
devoid of human inhabitants. When the land had returned to mature forest,
Kenyah moved in to fill the vacuum. Some Kenyah groups, in particular the
Badeng and Bakong, preyed upon other groups for heads and were archenemies
of the Punan Nuo and Punan Tekalet. Thus, the convergence of many Kenyah
into the Apau Kayan, which shared the same watershed system with the Balui,
193
194
Map 9.1. Punan Vuhang Exploitation Grounds During Nomadic Times

brought the Punan of this area into contact with their traditional enemies.
Headhunting was frequent, and life became increasingly difficult for the Punan.
Frequently, hunters and food collectors failed to return to camp, having been
killed by headhunters.
Hostilities caused the Punan to look for a new location to live. They moved
into uninhabited areas and divided themselves into three groups (see Map 9.1).
One group moved to the Kihan, a tributary of the Kayan River in Kalimantan.
A second group went to the lower reaches of the Kajang and the middle part of
the Linau, tributaries of the Balui in Sarawak. A third group, comprising
primarily Punan Vuhang, whose forefathers had had no quarrel with the Kayan
or the Kenyah, decided to return to the Balui headwaters. Being at peace with
the dominant groups, they lived at the headwaters, sandwiched between the
Kayan in the lower part of the Balui and the Kenyah living across the mountain
range in the Apau Kayan Plateau.
Before the Punan Vuhang returned to the Balui headwaters, several important
events occurred. During the Great Kayan Expedition of 1863, Brooke forces
overcame the resisting Kayan who had gathered in the upper reaches of the Balui.
In the area of the Balleh River, Kayan who had originated from the Mahakam
River area in Kalimantan no longer felt safe from Iban headhunting forays in the
Balleh. They returned to the Mahakam and the Iban then filled the vacuum.
From the Balleh, the Iban launched headhunting expeditions into the upper
Balui, forcing the Kayan and other sedentary peoples to congregate in the mid-
Balui for easier defence (Chan 1991: 18–20; on Iban warlike history, see Sandin
1967).
When the Punan Vuhang returned to the Balui headwaters, the Iban
massacred 14 of them as follows: the Iban had seemed to be the genuine forest
exploiters and tapped gutta percha for a long period. They appeared harmless,
friendly, and peaceful and the Punan Vuhang eventually let down their guard
and befriended them. The Iban even held a servilak (sevila’ ) swearing ceremony,
whereby they became bound to the Punan Vuhang as blood brothers. These
Punan had no idea that the Iban were actually scheming to kill them when they
were most vulnerable.2 On the eve of the attack, the Iban asked their hosts to
hold a singing ritual in praise of the spirits. After feasting and dancing throughout
the night, they fell into a deep sleep. It was then that the Iban slaughtered their
victims.
The survivors and their kinsmen from the other Punan groups in the Linau
River area sought revenge against the Iban. At first, they sought help from the
Kayan. However, the Kayan reported the massacre to the Brooke government,
195
which launched a punitive expedition against the Gaat Iban. These Iban were in
a rebellious mood, and it was suspected that they had killed the Punan Vuhang.
The Punan Vuhang joined a Brooke force of 200 soldiers against the Iban, an
event reported in the Sarawak Gazette (SG 1916: 78). The expedition was a
success, but the Punan Vuhang felt the victory belonged to the Brooke forces,
not to them, and so decided they would carry out further revenge.
They went to Iban territory in the Balleh River basin and killed four Iban. By
noting the pattern of attack and retreat, the Iban identified the killers as Punan
and set out to seek their revenge. The Iban war party came across unsuspecting
Penan Bunut – another hunter-gatherer people of a different ethnicity – and used
a friendship-betrayal scheme to kill their hosts (see Chan 1995: 24–25 for a
version of these events told by the survivors’ descendants). The Iban, however,
remained unsatisfied and pursued the Punan Vuhang, who went into hiding.
The Punan Vuhang then decided to seek refuge among the Kenyah in Kalimantan,
who were enemies of the Iban and had frequently clashed with them (see Pringle
1970: 261). They remained in Kalimantan for five years, but once hostilities in
the Balui had subsided, they returned to Sarawak (on a similar situation regarding
the Bhuket, see Thambiah in this volume).
A few years later, in 1924, the Kapit Peace-Making Ceremony forged peace
between the Iban, Kayan, and Kenyah and brought about a cessation of warfare
in the area. For the first time in decades, peace prevailed. In the years subsequent
to the peace-making ceremony, there appeared to be no significant events that
affected the well-being of the Punan Vuhang.
Sedentism and Conversion to Adet Bungan and Christianity

The period of the Indonesian–Malaysian Confrontation (1963–1966), during
which Indonesian forces made incursions into Sarawak, brought a period
of calamity to the whole area. Raids took place across border passes between
Kalimantan and Sarawak, including assaults at the Balui headwaters, which
were the major access routes between the two states. The confrontation had
an impact on the Punan Vuhang, who were living along one of these border
passes. Commonwealth forces under the command of the British army guarded
the border passes and one group stayed with the Punan Vuhang for a period.
Although the situation was tense, for the Punan Vuhang it was a relatively easy
period as they were given ample food by the army.3
The arrival of a Kayan trader requesting that the Punan Vuhang deliver a
peace letter to his brother who lived in Kalimantan marked the end of
Confrontation for the Punan Vuhang. The letter was to invite Indonesian tribal
196
chiefs to come over to Sarawak to conduct a peace-making ceremony. The trader

requested that the Punan Vuhang settle down, so as to make it easier for traders
to visit them. Their frequent movement in the distant headwaters had made it
difficult for traders to meet them.
Initially, the Punan Vuhang refused the idea. They argued that a settlement
further down the Linau River, where traders could meet them more easily, was
not favourable for trade, as little rattan was available in the area. The trader
then suggested that they settle in the Kajang basin, where rattan was abundant.
The Kajang valley also happened to be very fertile, thus providing an
environment suitable for cultivation. Besides, travelling to the Kajang from the
Linau, a main waterway, required only a few hours’ walk across an intervening
mountain range. Once in the Kajang basin, travelling along the river was less
problematic, as there were no difficult rapids to traverse. The Punan Vuhang
subsequently agreed to move into the Kajang valley and adopt cultivation (see
Map 9.2).
In persuading them to settle, the trader also suggested that the Punan Vuhang
adopt a new belief system, Adet Bungan (recently emerged from among the
Kenyah of interior Kalimantan, comprising elements of traditional belief and
Christianity; on the Bungan religion and on conversion, see Rousseau 1998), as
he foresaw that by merely adopting cultivation the Punan would face great
difficulties. He believed that the Punan Vuhang’s practice of fleeing an area
following the occurrence of a death would, sooner or later, force the community
to abandon their cultivated fields. This was incompatible with cultivation, which
required consistent crop maintenance and a sedentary life. He assured them that
Adet Bungan only suppressed the negative effects of death-related taboos, and
that they could continue to practise their old festivals and healing rituals. In fact,
these healing rituals were compatible with Adet Bungan. Eventually, the Punan
Vuhang accepted the new religion and moved into the Kajang valley to begin
cultivation, in 1968.
The beginnings of sedentarism and cultivation coincided with a series of
deaths among the group, which the Punan Vuhang attributed to having
abandoned their traditional livelihood. These deaths also coincided with the
return of Indonesians to Kalimantan after having worked in Sarawak. These
migrant workers came from the border area between Kalimantan and Sarawak.
At the end of the Confrontation, they returned using the Kajang route for their
journey. Having accumulated money to buy goods, they were loaded with
supplies on their passage home. Viewing them with their new supplies, the Punan
Vuhang thought that they could also obtain many goods if they went to the
197
198
Map 9.2. Sedentary Punan Vuhang Regular Exploitation Grounds

Belaga bazaar, without realising that the travellers had worked for many years in
order to purchase these items (see Map 9.1 on p. 194).
The Punan Vuhang went to Belaga seeking goods. They returned without any
goods but, unknowingly, with contagious malaria. The fever spread and seven
people died. Although conversion to Adet Bungan should have averted their fleeing
the death site, the unusually high number of deaths provoked great fear and caused
them to abandon their new settlement. The community was in a dilemma, as most
wanted to revert to their traditional way of life, but their leader decided otherwise
and convinced them to resume cultivation. Nonetheless, many more died from
malaria. Their traditional healing rituals could not provide any cure and they did
not have sacrificial animals, such as pigs or chickens, with which to perform Adet
Bungan rituals. Instead of improving, the situation continued to worsen.
Eventually, those who survived started to recover from the disease. At the
same time, a Christian pastor, on his return home, requested that the Punan
Vuhang guide him back to Kalimantan. He made the request during the
occurrence of bad omens. No one wanted to take him, for fear of the consequences.
He convinced them that conversion to Christianity could avert the effects of
omens. When two young men converted to Christianity and took him to
Kalimantan, then returned with no bad consequences, the entire Punan Vuhang
community followed suit and adopted the new religion. The subsequent recovery
from the disease, simultaneous with their conversion, enabled the group to
continue cultivation without further major difficulties.
After cultivating different sites for three years, they decided to stay at Long
Lidem. After they settled, the government provided aid to construct a longhouse,
where they have remained ever since. A legislative council member (of Kayan
origin) from the area requested that they adopt longhouse-style apartments.
At first, the Punan Vuhang refused, worried that their hunting dogs might fight
if their owners lived together in such close proximity. The council member
rationalised that the dogs would eventually get used to such a situation. Besides,
he reasoned, when it rained they could visit other households as the common
corridor linking all the apartments would shelter them. The Punan Vuhang were
convinced and accepted the idea of a longhouse.
For over 25 years, no significant event occurred. Due to the remoteness of
their settlement, they had few visitors. On occasion, especially after the harvest
season, traders would make a trip to do business with them for rattan products.
Only occasionally, during outbreaks of malaria, did a medical and malaria
prevention team visit them to provide treatment and spray insecticide in their
immediate vicinity.
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Recent Period (1980–2000)

In the late 1980s, due to Penan resistance to logging in the Baram River area (see
Brosius in this volume), the Sarawak state government initiated a development
programme meant to bring these remote hunting and gathering communities
into the mainstream of development. The programme introduced agriculture,
health care, and schooling. Headmen appointed by the government were given a
yearly allowance of 1,000 Malaysian ringgit (MYR) and were obliged to attend
meetings called by the nearest District Office. Selected young Penan were
recruited into a Volunteer Corps to bring basic agricultural skills, health care,
and schooling to the communities.
The Punan Vuhang, due to their remoteness, received few of these provisions.
They did not want to send their children to the boarding school at the Lusong
Laku Service Centre, which took two days to reach, travelling by boat and
walking. Only occasionally did they send their wives to give birth at the Lusong
Laku clinic. Moreover, as the state government does not differentiate Punan
from Penan (see Introduction, in this volume), one unmarried Punan Vuhang
man was selected to become a Penan Volunteer in 1999.
In the early 1990s, the Flying Doctor Service started visiting the Punan
Vuhang by helicopter on a monthly basis. The service provided basic health care,
and a doctor advised expectant mothers to deliver at the Lusong Laku clinic,
where newly born children could be registered. In 1993, the community was
given construction material to build a new longhouse.
In late 1993, the government revived the controversial Bakun Hydroelectric
Project that, when completed, will submerge a huge part of the interior of the
Kapit division of Sarawak. The Punan Vuhang are unlikely to be directly
affected, as the area to be submerged lies downriver from them. Indirect effects,
nonetheless, came about from government compensation for homes that will be
submerged by the resulting reservoir. Many people living downriver, inhabiting
small dwellings that will command little compensation, sought capital to
construct larger houses for which they would receive greater government
reimbursement. To obtain this capital, these people were motivated to trade with
the Punan Vuhang. Once the rice season was over, trading groups came to trade
with the Punan Vuhang every two or three months, or even more often. By late
1995, all the homes to be affected by the Bakun Hydroelectric Project had been
registered for compensation, and since then fewer trading parties have visited the
Punan Vuhang.
During the last decade of the twentieth century, logging had not yet reached
the Punan Vuhang. Nonetheless, they have begun to feel the ripple effects of
200
logging as they listened to people who have suffered its consequences. On their
travels to the Belaga Bazaar or to Kapit, walking on logging roads and hitching
rides on logging trucks, they directly observe logging’s drastic impact on the
environment. Felled trees have knocked down surrounding trees. Logging roads
and tractor skid-trails have buried sago palms, rattans, and other forest resources.
Mountain slopes are now covered with loose soil that washes down during rains
to pollute, flood, or block nearby rivers.
Rather than waiting for logging activities to reach their present area, the
Punan Vuhang have been actively preparing for that eventuality. They travel to
forests that they have not used since settling down, to re-establish rights of
ownership. In particular, they have returned to the headwaters of the Linau and
painted their community’s name, ‘Punan Busang’, over areas where they
previously camped and in caves in which they hid during the headhunting era.
They have done this to prevent the Penan, living along the middle part of the
Linau Basin, from staking a claim to these lands. In addition, they have sent
petitions to the company now logging the area (where the Iban killed 14 Punan
Vuhang), at the headwaters of the Balui, demanding compensation for the
desecration of a death site. They have also written to the state government asking
for a communal forest that would be kept free from logging.
ECONOMIC CHANGE AND THE PUNAN VUHANG RESPONSE

During the era of headhunting and warfare, the Punan Vuhang were able to
resist subjugation by expansionist groups and remain relatively free, as their
mobile economy enabled them to subsist entirely on rainforest resources. A brief
description of the ecology of their circumstances provides an understanding of
the relationship between the rainforest environment and their mobile economy
as it existed in the past.
The equatorial climate of Borneo, with rainfall ranging from 200 to 400 cm
per year, makes possible a perennially damp rainforest that is ‘fabulously rich in
both plant and animal species’ (Whitmore 1990: 58; 1995: 11). The rainforest
contains hundreds of animal species, many of which were hunted by the Punan
Vuhang (see Payne 1995: 54; see also Payne et al. 1985). The natural vegetation
in tall lowland and hill forests up to 1,000 m altitude is dominated by Dipterocarps
(287 species), and no other tropical rainforest anywhere in the world has such a
high prevalence of one tree family (Whitmore 1995: 11). During major fruiting
seasons (‘mast-fruiting’; see Dove 1993b), occurring two or three times per
decade, Dipterocarps provide a super abundance of fruit for wildlife to eat. Across
201
a large area, almost all Dipterocarp species flower within a few weeks of one
another (ibid.). Besides, at least 120 species of trees in the Bornean rainforests
produce edible fruits, often fruiting in the same season (Soepadmo 1995: 28).
Although it appears that periodic flowering is probably the rule for most
tree species, there are some that flower continuously (Whitmore 1984: 70).
Leighton and Leighton (1983) also list some seasonal plants that provide
animals with major food resources during low fruiting periods. These plants,
described as ‘keystone mutualists’, permit the maintenance of animal
populations that have fixed home ranges and cannot simply escape unfavourable
periods by migration. These plants include the Melastomaceae and Rubiaceae
families. Others include the Ficus species, the Annonaceae, Meliaceae, and
Myristicaceae. The trees and climbing plants of the Legume family (Fabaceae)
provide fruit, leaves, shoots, flowers, and bark, consumed for survival by
primates, squirrels, and other mammals. These ‘keystone’ plant resources play
a prominent role in sustaining plant-eating animals through periods of food
scarcity (Payne 1995: 59).
Corresponding to the seasonal fruiting of the Dipterocarp species, the Punan
Vuhang observed a calendar synchronically linked to the major fruit season,
during which their methods of food acquisition were adapted to temporary
resource abundance. In contrast, long lean periods outside the major fruit season
made necessary more strategic and diversified methods of food acquisition.
From Figure 9.1, it can be seen that the Punan Vuhang had adopted a mobile
economy that took advantage of the seasonal availability and varying types of
food resources. As they depended on the natural occurrence of resources, the
Punan Vuhang, as hunter-gatherers, practised a nomadic economy rooted in
mobility. In each resource area, they exploited the food resources until depletion,
and then they moved on to another area to commence a further cycle of
exploitation. During periods of food scarcity, the community divided itself into
two groups in order to exploit different areas. This fission, with fewer members,
put less pressure on the limited available resources. During lean times, when sago
was the only main food resource, they often harvested sago in spots that required
temporary stays away from the main camp.
Using a diversity of food acquisition methods – hunting with dogs and with
blowpipes, trapping ground-dwelling animals, fishing, and collecting various
foods – the Punan Vuhang were able to cope with the seasonal lack of food
abundance. Some individuals claimed a form of property rights over individual
sago clumps to conserve them for future use. In times of need, they could return
to these clumps to harvest the regenerated palms. The practice of sharing and
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Figure 9.1. Punan Vuhang Calendar Synchronised with Major Flowering and
Fruiting Seasons
reciprocity also ensured that those who failed to get anything would receive
something from successful hunters.
From this outline, showing the material ecological relationship of the Punan
Vuhang with their environment, their food seasons and synchronised calendar,
we can identify three cycles that determined Punan Vuhang survival.
The first relates to the cycle of seasonal abundance and scarcity. Seasonal
drought caused vegetation to flower and then bear fruit, providing a momentary
abundance of game during the fruiting season (‘mast-fruiting’). When the fruit
season ended, there was a corresponding lack of animals, as the migratory species
moved away to areas where food was available. For the animals remaining behind,
keystone plant species provided food that maintained their survival, ensuring the
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Punan Vuhang a continued supply of meat. When the drought season returned,
another period of abundance occurred, followed by scarcity, thus completing
this cycle.
This seasonally varying feature led to the second cycle, revolving around ease
and then difficulty in hunting. The period of fruit abundance resulted in an
animal population explosion from new births and the appearance of migratory
animals that came to forage on the fruit, especially wild boar. During this period,
it was easy to hunt animals, as they focused on foraging for fruit. During the lean
period, however, only game that remained behind to feed on keystone resources
could be obtained. Even then, the scarcity of food caused animals to forage over
wider areas, making it more difficult for hunters to locate them. Related to this
was the ease of hunting game that had yet to encounter human hunters as
predators. However, it is said that certain species of animals developed avoidance
habits to elude hunters, and this was related to the next cyclical feature.
The third cycle involved food abundance and scarcity in relation to mobility.
When a band camped in a new river system far from the area that it had previously
exploited, it was relatively straightforward to hunt animals that were not aware
of the Punan Vuhang presence. A new area also provided many sago palms for
processing into starch. After depleting the resources in an area of abundance,
they would search for sago groves and solitary palms in adjacent forest zones. As
these resources became depleted, Punan Vuhang again experienced scarcity.
They then moved on to a new area. These three cycles were the foundation of
their mobile economy, which in the past enabled them to survive long periods of
food scarcity.
The Sedentary Economy

The adoption of cultivation in 1968 drastically shifted the economic orientation
of the Punan Vuhang from a mobile to a sedentary system (see Langub 1974a).
Cultivation requires sedentarism in order to maintain crops, and food sufficiency
enables them to stay in one location. Nonetheless, the Punan Vuhang do not rear
domesticated animals for food (for a discussion of this, see Seitz in this volume),
and so they continue to hunt for protein food. Consequently, they remain a
people able to obtain protein only through hunting, although hunting strategies
have changed as a result of their adaptation to a sedentary existence.
While the Punan Vuhang practise a system of shifting cultivation that is
similar in most respects to that of other Borneo communities (see, e.g., Chan
1991, Chin 1977 and 1985, Dove 1985, Freeman 1955b, Rousseau 1977), their
work processes differ. At this point, it is important to note that the Punan
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Vuhang subsist on a variety of staple foods that includes rice, tapioca, bananas,
sweet potatoes, and yams. They do not cultivate rice as intensively as other
communities, such as the Kayan and Iban do. Most of their farm sites are
located along the banks of the meandering Kajang River, on fertile alluvial soil.
Because the land is comparatively fertile, they do not need to farm large tracts
of land.
The Punan Vuhang generally cultivate farms together in a common
community tract. Nonetheless, some households select individual sites if they
feel that their location is better than the common tract. The presence of individual
farms isolated from one another differentiates Punan Vuhang cultivation from
that of the Kayan, who farm only adjacent swiddens. Among the Kayan, even if
farms are cultivated at different locations, groups of households make their farms
side by side.
The Punan Vuhang prefer flat land with a meandering stream that can irrigate
the soil. To determine the suitability of land for cultivation, they look for ferns as
an indicator of soil fertility. When the time for clearing is short, an individual
chooses young secondary forest overrun with thorny vines. Despite the difficulty
in clearing such land, the soil is fertile and the vines require little time to dry,
compared to big felled trees. Under ideal conditions, the best type of land is
secondary forest that has been fallow for over ten years. The trees dominating
such land are sufficiently mature, with diameters larger than a man’s waist, to
provide an abundant biomass for conversion into burnt nutrients. The dense
canopy prevents sunlight from penetrating to the forest floor and so inhibits
weed growth. There are few weed seeds in the soil, thus minimising the laborious
work of weeding. The abundant humus from decayed unburned trunks from
previous cultivation further contributes to soil fertility.
Once clear of vegetation, the very old secondary forest and primary rainforest
land is suitable for planting rice. The surface soil contains a thick layer of humus.
The only disadvantage in cultivating such land is the presence of huge trees,
including hardwood species that are difficult to fell. The tree-felling stage,
therefore, has to begin much earlier in order to be completed at least a month
before the beginning of the sowing season. Early clearing lets the branches of
larger trees dry sufficiently to allow for burning. Therefore, only households with
sufficient manpower attempt to clear such land for rice cultivation.4
The work process of clearing undergrowth, felling trees, burning, sowing,
weeding, and harvesting are the same as for the Kayan. However, the social
aspect of the work process is completely different. Among the Kayan, all work
stages are carried out on a workgroup basis that involves a systematic exchange
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of an equal amount of labour between participating households. The number of

days that an individual works on another person’s farm is reciprocated with the
same number of days’ work on his farm. In addition, each workgroup labours an
equal amount of time for all the members on a daily rotation of work on each
member’s farm. During the early years of cultivation, in contrast, Punan Vuhang
were unable to follow an even distribution of work, and so eventually abandoned
the labour exchange. Not knowing how to measure the work contributed by each
member, the farmers completed all the work on one household’s farm before they
moved on to another. The duration of work was uncertain, depending on the size
of the farm and the vegetation to be cleared, without calculating the number of
days that each family worked on another’s swidden. Only the completion of
work on all the farms signified the end of the reciprocal exchange of labour,
regardless of whether a person provided more labour than he or she had received.
Besides this unfair work distribution, households that received the workgroup’s
assistance late were at a great disadvantage. Towards the end, people were less
diligent and absenteeism was high. To worsen the situation, households whose
lands were the last to be cleared were left with only a short time for the vegetation
to dry and thus obtained less ash from burning.
During the later stages of labour exchange, the disadvantaged households
grumbled that absent members were ungrateful for the benefits they had already
gained. Another factor leading to a breakdown of the workgroup system was
firewood collection. At the end of the day, members collected wood from the felled
trees. This annoyed some swidden owners who complained that workgroup
members were only interested in collecting firewood. Due to these factors, members
began to disassociate themselves from workgroups to work on their own.
Each man now works for himself for the duration of the cultivation season.
Other members of the household only provide assistance during the strenuous
period of sowing, weeding, and harvesting. At the onset of the cultivation season,
it seems impossible for a single man to clear a plot of forest land. The task is
perceived as being extremely monotonous, and most men work alone all day.
I believe that since Punan Vuhang hunt in isolation, farming in a solitary state
seems more familiar. This differs from the Kayan, who say that they work in
groups because of the need to overcome the ‘weaknesses’ of working alone, which
include lack of discipline, loneliness, and the monotony of labour (Chan 1991:
141, Rousseau 1977: 138).
Nonetheless, the comparison of individual toil versus workgroup labour also
needs to be seen from a different perspective, that of the consumption of food
crops. The Kayan consider rice to be their staple food and eat other foods such
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as tapioca or sago only in times of rice shortage. As such, they need large tracts
of land, requiring much manpower to clear. By comparison, the Punan Vuhang
subsist on a variety of staple crops in addition to rice, such as tapioca, bananas,
yams, and sweet potatoes. Potatoes and yams are grown on plots within the
longhouse compound. Tapioca tubers are often obtained from previous swidden
fields, and bananas from clumps growing near the settlement. In the event of
crop failure, there is still plentiful wild sago to fall back on. The smaller amount
of rice consumed can therefore be cultivated on a smaller swidden than a man
can clear by himself.
Interestingly, a new type of cooperation has emerged with the advent of
the chainsaw. Since it is a skilled task to operate a chainsaw for felling trees, a
man may offer his unskilled labour to a person who is skilled in tree cutting,
by clearing the undergrowth for the latter. In return, the skilled person helps
to cut down the trees by reciprocating the number of days’ work that he
received. This exchange is more advantageous to the unskilled person because
if he were to fell the trees by himself, it would take much longer. Consequently,
he gains ‘extra’ working days by offering just a few days of work clearing
undergrowth.
As mentioned, the Punan Vuhang cultivate a variety of plants to supplement
their diet: tapioca (cassava, Manihot esculenta Crantz), sweet potatoes (Ipomoea
batatas), taro (Colocosia esculenta), and bananas (Musa spp.) as other staples, and
a number of vegetables for side dishes. At the edges of their swidden, they also
plant fruit trees.
The Punan Vuhang plant tapioca after sowing rice and usually harvest the
crop the following year to obtain tubers the size of a man’s forearm. The delay in
harvest allows the tubers to accumulate more starch. When they feel a nostalgic
desire to eat sago paste, they grate the mature tubers and process them into
starch. Otherwise, they just boil the tubers before eating them. A group of women
or an old man alone usually harvests the tapioca. The work is straightforward,
and a person needs to obtain only a basketful of tubers for three or four
days’ consumption. The proximity of swidden fields to the settlement lends
women a sense of security that allows them to go there without being accompanied
by a man.
The Punan Vuhang also cultivate bananas by planting young shoots that
they have dug up from banana clumps. Banana shoots require a relatively long
period to grow. When they reach maturity, they produce offshoots, and as plants
continue to produce offshoots, they mature and ripen at different times.
Consequently, this fruit can be harvested over a long period. Besides being eaten
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raw as a snack, the fruit is cooked in lard to produce a banana paste. Occasionally,
it is boiled and mashed into a pulp.
The Punan Vuhang only plant maize when seeds are obtainable. They do not
greatly enjoy eating this food, as the breed most available seems tough and
tasteless. If they wish to grow it, then maize is planted in a swidden field together
with rice. Depending on seed availability, vegetable crops such as gourds and
cucumbers are also grown and consumed as side dishes.
Once vegetable crops are exhausted, the Punan Vuhang rely on a variety of
wild plants for food. They consume ferns (Stenochlaena palustris) and seasonal
bamboo and sago shoots. Except for sago shoots (Eugeissona utilis Becc.), these
foods are usually found near their settlement. The Punan Vuhang frequently
gather tapioca shoots found in abundance in swidden fields, including abandoned
swiddens near the longhouse. They do not favour ferns, except for an occasional
meal to break the monotony of eating tapioca leaves.
Tobacco is an important crop, although only those who smoke tobacco
cultivate it. They plant tobacco seeds in fertile spots within their fields where the
burnt biomass is most concentrated. When the plants mature, the leaves are
plucked, thinly shredded, and dried in the sun. The Punan Vuhang use a type of
broad jungle leaf to roll the tobacco for smoking.
The Punan Vuhang cultivate fruit trees along the riverbanks, especially at the
confluence of the small streams that act as boundaries between farms. During
the burning stage, they take great care to avoid burning these fruit groves. They
also convert the land close to the settlement into small fruit gardens, so that
during the fruit season, they do not have to go far to harvest these fruits. Among
the varieties of common fruit that the Punan Vuhang favour are durian (Durio
zibethinus Murr.), mango (Mangifera pajang Kost.), jackfruit (Artocarpus
heterophyllus), rambutan (Nephelium lappaceum), a bristly hairy rambutan-like
fruit (Nephelium mutabile Bl.; N. uncinatum), and a longan-like fruit (Pometia
pinnata Forst; Xerospermum sp.; Dimocarpus longan Lour.). They also plant less
favoured, sour-sweet fruits, such as oranges (Citrus reticulata Blanco; Citrus
sinensis), limes (Citrus aurantifolia), pomeloes (Citrus grandis), and pineapples
(Ananas comosus). Coconut (Cocos nucifera L.) is not much favoured because the
palms are considered difficult to climb.
The Punan Vuhang use two methods to cultivate fruit trees. The first is to
clear weeds around a tree seedling that has self-propagated. During fruit season,
people simply spit out seeds, which sometimes germinate into seedlings. Near
the settlement, many fruit trees are cultivated this way, although seedlings
growing close to the longhouse (nearer than 20 feet) are removed, for if they
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mature into trees, branches may snap and damage the longhouse. The second
method involves replanting in a swidden field seedlings from trees that are known
to produce good yields.
The Punan Vuhang continue to rely on wildlife for protein. Nonetheless,
hunting has become less intense due to the greater availability of cultivated
food. During nomadic times, hunting was always undertaken in the hinterland,
up on the mountain ranges. With the availability of boats and outboard
motors, hunters can now easily go far upriver to search for game foraging
along nearby river valleys. In about 1972, a new strategy of meat transportation
was introduced. When a hunter obtained a wild boar, he brought the carcass
to the nearest part of the riverbank, where he left it, walking on to his boat
to then return and collect the animal. This idea caught on and hunting
shifted from trips to the hinterland, to hunting along nearby river valleys.
Over the years, it has become increasingly difficult to hunt wild boar near
rivers, as Punan believe animals have become wary of the danger of being
close to waterways. Nowadays, hunters have to travel farther inland from
riverbanks to hunt, and the yield is often not commensurate with the effort
required.
Wild boar remains the major focus of hunting trips. It is relatively arduous and
less rewarding to obtain arboreal game with blowpipes and trap ground-dwelling
animals with noose traps. Generally, a hunter will only search for such game when
a member of the household is ill and desires to eat a certain tree-dwelling animal.
In the mid-1980s, the government issued two shotguns for the community’s self-
protection. These weapons are now important hunting tools, although their use is
limited due to the lack of available ammunition. Consequently, the use of hunting
dogs remains most important for hunting.
Fishing is now an important activity because of the availability of boats and
fishing nets, in combination with the difficulty and hardship involved in hunting
game. Cast nets and gill nets are used only during dry periods, when the rivers
are low. After a heavy downpour, it can take up to a week for a river’s level to
subside to a favourable level. When the water is low, fish avoid the shallower parts
of a river and seek shelter in bays, and when fish are concentrated in this way, it
is easier to trap them.
Commoditisation
Trade is now an important economic activity, and here I will assess the extent
to which commoditisation has penetrated the Punan Vuhang economy and
discuss the changes that have resulted. To the extent that the Punan Vuhang
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continue to carry out activities that they practised in the past, it is also pertinent
to examine the resilience of their traditional economy. Despite having adopted
cultivation and permanent settlement, they continue to carry out subsistence
activities as their main mode of production. The range of subsistence activities,
however, differs from those of their traditional economy. Traditional activities
included hunting and fishing and fruit and rattan collecting. The non-traditional
ones, carried out only after settling down, include the cultivation of a variety
of food crops: first, annual crops, such as rice and tapioca (the main staple food
crops), and various supplementary vegetables; and also perennial crops, such as
bananas, an alternative staple, and various fruits as seasonal foods. Tobacco is
cultivated to satisfy an addiction that was previously satisfied by barter trade
for tobacco.
The availability of new tools and sedentarism have changed the way in which
hunting and fishing are carried out. The use of shotguns is an alternative to
hunting wild boar with dogs. Boats and fishing nets are used to catch fish, a
much more efficient method than the traditional use of fish harpoons, line and
hook, and fish traps. Sedentarism also limits the forest areas that can be feasibly
hunted, with less wildlife available nearby. Consequently, hunting with blowpipes
and trapping game are now rarely practised. However, the lack of ground-
and tree-dwelling animals is offset by the use of boats and outboard motors
allowing travel over greater distances in search of game.
In terms of food, the Punan Vuhang continue to subsist without relying on
food obtained through commodity trade. Food items acquired through barter
trade, such as instant noodles, sweets, sugar, coffee, and biscuits, are mostly
consumed very quickly. When they run out of these, only small children continue
to crave them. Although one might deduce that subsistence activities have been
resilient in the face of modern market forces, it is more likely that difficulties of
transportation have prevented a more widespread trade in food items.
Although permanent settlement midway along the Kajang River has made it
easier for trading expeditions to reach Punan Vuhang territory, it still requires a
period of one week to reach their village from the nearest town (in contrast to a
three-month journey during the nomadic past). Such a trip, requiring expensive
land transportation, a boat journey and travel on foot, only allows for transporting
small, light trade items that can fetch a relatively high price, as opposed to the
bulky, heavy food items that command a low price.
A question that arises is, what motivates traders to make the difficult journey
to the Punan Vuhang settlement? Compared to the past, when among the Kayan
only aristocrats could raise the required capital to carry out trading, over the last
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few decades of the twentieth century, commoners have begun to enter commerce.
For various reasons too complex to be discussed here, social change among the
nearest longhouse communities has allowed some upward social mobility.
Enhancement of one’s social standing can be achieved by acquiring status goods,
which is made possible by trading. As a result, trading relations between
longhouse dwellers of non-aristocratic descent and the Punan Vuhang have
become more significant.
As noted earlier, the commencement of the Bakun Hydroelectric Dam project
in late 1993 resulted in a further intensification of trade. The official plan to
compensate for houses that will be submerged by the dam reservoir motivated
many individuals to trade. However, after the government finished compensating
for these houses, trading decreased.
For the Punan Vuhang, one might ask what factors drew them into trading
relations. Producing material for barter trading, particularly rattan mats, involves
highly monotonous and repetitive work. Once Punan Vuhang have obtained a
sufficient supply of basic materials, such as cooking pots, knives, torches, and
clothes, they have little interest in obtaining more of these goods. Their need for
tobacco has been relieved by growing their own. To entice them into trading
relations, traders introduced new goods to attract the Punan Vuhang, such as
quickly consumable items (sugar, coffee, and instant noodles). More importantly,
they introduced an apparently more addictive ‘Bangau’ brand of tobacco (lokok
lokong), which is said to produce a strong effect on the person who smokes it.
Craving for this kind of tobacco has resulted in the Punan Vuhang producing
goods desired by traders. Traders also brought along items to sell on credit terms,
such as radios and cassette players.
In addition, the availability of the addictive drug ‘Three Legs’ has greatly
enhanced trading. The effect of the drug is said to be immediate in suppressing
headaches, fever, and other discomforts, and also in relieving lethargy, thereby
giving the user a sense of well-being. It needs to be pointed out here that the drug
was not introduced by traders but by two young Punan Vuhang individuals who
attended school in Belaga in the 1970s. After completing school, one worked as
a hospital attendant and the other served in a rural health clinic. Over time, they
found it hard to endure the ‘regimented’ lifestyle, that required adherence to
rules and regulations with which they were previously unfamiliar, and turned to
this drug for relief. They returned home and introduced the ‘Three-Legs’ brand
drug (known as Kaki Tiga), a drug commonly taken as a painkiller.
The Punan Vuhang were unaware that the drug is addictive, and after taking it
several times, many began to crave its soothing effect. In fact, the habit of many
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has become more intense by the consumption of Kaki Tiga to alleviate boredom
while making rattan products to trade for yet more Kaki Tiga.
Traders were subsequently asked to bring the drug on their trading
expeditions. Initially, they brought only a little but consumption increased.
As more and more was brought, many Punan Vuhang increasingly craved
the drug. When they felt tired or hungry, it appeared to relieve them of
their discomfort. It also provided relief for lethargy during periods of rattan
weaving, hunting, and cultivation activities. Before long, many were obsessed
with the drug, to the point that some individuals found it extremely difficult
to do anything without it. Well-meaning traders have warned the community
of the dangers of consuming the drug, and medical staff, who fly in once a
month by helicopter, also became aware of the problem. However, it has been
of little avail and the number of habitual users has increased and, although life
carries on, the impact of this drug and the craving for it have become a serious
community problem.
In recent years, traders have introduced new commodities, selling chainsaws
and outboard motors on credit. In 1994, a chainsaw cost about MYR 1,000, and
a three-horsepower outboard motor cost MYR 850. Households that obtained
these machines had to work hard to produce mats and baskets to pay for them.
Because of the large amount of debt involved, it can take a family a year or so to
pay off the debt.
With the purchase of these motorised tools, demand for a new consumption
product, petrol, has arisen. While traders bring petrol and sell it at MYR 30 per
gallon, most Punan Vuhang make the three-day journey to the nearest logging
camp to purchase it at MYR 11 per gallon. As cash is needed to purchase petrol,
most Punan Vuhang prefer to sell their products for cash. However, very few
traders are willing to buy rattan products for cash, as they will not profit from
this because the Punan Vuhang will only sell their mats for the price asked in the
Belaga market. Only a few young traders, who travel extensively and conduct
their transactions in the main state towns of Kuching and Miri, are willing to
pay for woven rattan mats in cash. In these towns, rattan products are sold at one
and a half times more than the price in Belaga.
The production of commodities has now become an important part of the
barter exchange process, and every able-bodied household member is expected to
produce some of these commodities. When there is a need to produce mats that
require a large amount of rattan, men (and boys) will undertake a rattan-
collecting expedition, travelling to distant areas where there is an abundance of
rattan.
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Women, likewise, regularly work long hours to make mats and other
products for trade. A mat takes about two to three weeks to make, depending on
other tasks that a woman has to deal with. In the early 1990s, a big mat measuring
5 × 5.5 feet sold for MYR 100. A design-work basket (ajat kalong) takes a day or
so to weave and is worth MYR 10. Women weave in the morning and afternoon,
when they are free from other tasks, and at night they come together to weave as
a group, sharing a diesel lamp for light. To produce more income, some men
weave meshed baskets (ajat kawang) that sell for MYR 4 each, while others weave
shoulder straps (oii), with a pair costing MYR 0.50, and basket bottoms (lutuk
ajat) for MYR 1.
At night, when people are gathered around weaving, they entertain themselves by
telling stories, playing a sapé (lute), or a tape recorder, and dancing. These forms of
entertainment, it is claimed, help them work late into the night. The general craving
for Kaki Tiga is an important aspect of motivation. A person jokes about it: Pinak kai
mek we, kai nyokonu Kaki ivak (‘When we weave rattan, we think only of Kaki’).
In the context of commoditisation, various trade items have increasingly been
incorporated into the production cycle. Knives and axes procured through trade
are now basic tools in swidden cultivation. Chainsaws are increasingly used to
fell trees for clearing forest, as are outboard motors, when petrol is available,
for transportation to farms and for hunting, fishing, and rattan collecting.
However, households generally have an insufficient amount of petrol for their
requirements.
The Punan Vuhang have also become keen consumers of various types of
purchased foods, which soon run out following the departure of the traders.
They wear clothes, use blankets, mosquito nets, and toiletries, all items obtained
through trade. During meals, they use plates, bowls, and a tray to hold the food,
instead of using only the cooking pot, as in the past. Battery-powered torches
provide light at night, along with diesel lamps, for which the fuel is obtained free
of charge from the logging camps. Cassette players are also bought on credit
from traders for entertainment.
The extent of the commoditisation of the Punan Vuhang economy shows
that commodity production has gradually become an economic requirement for
them. Cash is becoming increasingly important. It is required not only to buy
petrol but also to buy consumer items whenever the Punan Vuhang go to a
logging camp. The logging road that leads downriver is three days’ journey away,
and some people have begun to bring rattan products directly to Belaga or Kapit
to sell. However, this is relatively rare, as a substantial amount of goods has to be
taken to a town to make the journey economically viable.
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At the time of my fieldwork, between 1993 and 1995, the buying and selling
of commodities for cash had yet to play a major part in commodity relations.
During this period, the tuck shop at the nearest logging company camp did not
accept rattan products in exchange for other goods. Consequently, only someone
with cash was able to purchase petrol and other goods at the shop. However,
individuals who were able to make rattan products in considerable quantity
could bring them to Belaga to sell for cash. With cash, they could then buy other
commodities that they would otherwise have been unable to obtain.
In summary, during the early phase of their history, particularly that of
headhunting and warfare, the Punan Vuhang responded to the expansion of
sedentary peoples by moving to more remote areas, in order to remain free from
danger and political control, although by doing so, they were isolated. Their mobile
economy enabled them to subsist independently of external food products. The
adoption of cultivation and a sedentary life in the late 1960s brought about
considerable changes. From being a mobile hunter-gatherer community exploiting a
large territory, the Punan Vuhang have now settled permanently in a two-block
longhouse, and they cultivate the surrounding land. Here, they are able to
produce a consistently sufficient food supply to sustain them through each year.
The advent of logging in the last decade of the twentieth century brought with it
the introduction of cash, now an essential item, mainly for buying petrol to operate
chainsaws and outboard motors. In the near future, logging, with its extensive dirt-
road networks that inevitably penetrate the remotest areas (to obtain precious
timber), will reach Punan Vuhang country. This will facilitate movement and
transportation between the interior and the downriver markets which, in turn, will
further expose the Punan Vuhang to commoditisation. It is likely that when a road
finally reaches their settlement, they will become involved in cash crop cultivation
as another means of obtaining cash.
CHANGE IN RESOURCE TENURE

Because their forefathers chose to live in remote areas where few others ventured,
the Punan Vuhang have long been the sole inhabitants of a large territory.
Being the only resource users in such a vast area, they have scant recognition
of property rights over land or resources, although they recognise ownership of
certain resources that gives the rights holder exclusive access.
The adoption of cultivation and permanent settlement have converted resources
into items of high value, particularly land and durable construction materials.
On the other hand, sago, formerly the most valuable resource, has become much
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less important. Over time, a property rights system will develop further, as a result
of the increasing scarcity of resources due to their overexploitation. The advent of
logging and road building will inevitably result in the rapid development of a
property rights system related to the increasing penetration of a cash market
economy.
Resource Tenure in the Former Mobile Economy

The Punan Vuhang have traditionally accorded private property rights for some
fruit trees, trees that provide sap used for blowpipe poison (Antiaris toxicaria)
or wood for making blowpipes, and trees that produce the best firewood. They
considered Eugeissona sago palms as both a form of private property and an
open-access resource. If they were used occasionally and could be obtained
easily due to their abundance, palms were considered open-access resources.
To survey the impact of change on resource tenure, it is necessary to look first at
the nature of the property regime that existed in the mobile economy.
The only food source available throughout the year, sago was the most
important food resource to the Punan Vuhang. Of the two sago species, Eugeissona
utilis and Arenga undulatifolia, private rights were established only for the former.
The claim by some of Eugeissona as private property, while others maintained it as
an open-access resource, requires deeper analysis. As Eugeissona is abundant and
found throughout the forest, the Punan Vuhang had no qualms exploiting edible
young palms and consuming the shoots. After all, when these young palms
mature a few years later, the energy required to produce fruits would have drained
the starch. Consequently, the young palms would no longer contain starch when
the people returned to the area, years later. In any case, the palm seedlings left
growing would then be mature for exploitation. For that reason, the Punan
Vuhang did not find it necessary to conserve young palms or establish rights
over them.
However, some Punan Vuhang considered sago private property, to which
they established rights excluding others from exploiting it, but they only conserved
young palms and established rights over sago clumps that contained quality
starch, and that were also near running water, for starch processing. To these
individuals, the motivating factor in establishing such rights was the need to
cope with food scarcity. Despite the abundance of sago, during lean times the
conserved plants provided an assured food supply when the band had to return
to the area earlier than expected. This notion of conserving young sago for future
needs corresponds with the resource tenure of the Penan, another hunter-gatherer
people in Sarawak (for further details see, for example, Langub 1996b).
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The Punan Vuhang considered fruit an important resource to supplement

sago as a staple. During the fruit-ripening season, they consumed nutritious
fruits as a staple, while eating sour and less palatable fruits as snacks. Due to their
importance, the Punan Vuhang established private property rights over favoured
fruit trees. They only lopped off the secondary branches of rambutan trees
(Nephelium lappaceum L., Xerospermum sp., Pometia pinnata Forst., Nephelium
mutabile Bl., and N. uncinatum Radlk.).
Fruits that drop upon ripening were gathered from the ground. These
included durian (Durio zibethinus Murr., D. kutejensis) and mango (Mangifera
pajang Kost.). Such fruit usually ripens in stages, with only a few fruits dropping
in a day. Consequently, the amount of fruit that drops during a single day was
only enough for the rights holder’s household. In the past, during minor fruit
seasons, when only a few trees bear fruit, there have been cases of individuals, too
impatient to wait for valuable durian fruit to ripen, who have chopped down the
trees to harvest all the fruit, including unripe ones. With permanent settlement,
this is no longer condoned.
The rare blowpipe poison tree (Antiaris toxicaria) was one of the most important
resources to hunters, without which it was almost impossible to obtain game using
a blowpipe. As such, the Punan Vuhang treated Antiaris trees as private property.
Bark that has been tapped for latex does not produce more, making the Antiaris
tree a non-renewable resource. The raw Antiaris latex was one of the few resources
that was not shared, although the processed poison might be shared with a sibling
(if requested) through a complex distribution system.
For firewood, the Punan Vuhang used only a few species of hardwood trees
that had two characteristics: they were able to produce a hot, strong flame and a
long-lasting burn; and they were easy to split apart into kindling of 2 inches
thick. Of the various trees used as firewood, lingoh was the most suitable:
It grows to 1.5 feet in diameter, comprising hardwood, but is extremely easy to
split; it burns very well, producing a hot fire, which lasts much longer than any
other type of wood, requiring only three or four pieces of kindling to cook a
meal. Lingoh was treated as private property.
Resource Tenure and Sedentism

With the adoption of a sedentary lifestyle, the Punan Vuhang have changed their
perception of resources that were once without much value, now seeing them as
valuable items. Every individual places importance on land that has been cleared
for cultivation. Several individuals in the community have established rights to
trees reserved for constructing boats and homes. On the other hand, no rights
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to wild food resources, such as sago, that have lost their importance in their diet
have been established. Hence, private property rights over wild Eugeissona sago
are no longer important, and only a few men continue to establish such rights as
a precaution against famine.
Adoption of cultivation has included a new range of property rights
concerning planted crops. The Punan Vuhang accord private property rights to
all crops, but consider a food crop that self-propagates after harvesting as an
open-access resource. The establishment of exclusive rights to cultivated crops
is based on a recognition of the effort required to cultivate them, as a result of
which it is only reasonable for the Punan to recognise the exclusive rights of a
cultivator over his crops. In addition, cultivated food does not fall within a
system of sharing. Only under special circumstances does a person feel obliged
to share his yield.5
Although in the past Punan Vuhang only established private property rights
to mature fruit trees, they now establish rights to fruit trees via two methods:
cultivating a plant from its seed and establishing rights over a self-propagated
seedling. The first involves the intentional planting of a tree at a farm, usually at
the edges of a swidden field to mark its boundaries with other swiddens. Near the
settlement, people cultivate fruit groves, so that the owners need not go far to
harvest their fruit. Punan Vuhang consider a banana clump to be private property,
as the shoots that emerge perpetuate the plant.
A cultivator holds exclusive rights over the annual crops that he plants in his
swidden, including rice, tapioca, tobacco, and vegetables. Due to the short-term
nature of these crops, these rights are impermanent and lapse after harvesting.
Such non-permanent rights concern tapioca that self-propagates after harvesting,
as the tapioca plant does not decay but grows roots and re-establishes itself.
When these roots mature, people consider them an open-access resource. Rights
to tobacco follow the same rule. The big leaves that produce quality tobacco
become the private property of the cultivator, but the small leaves left on the
stalk after harvesting can be taken freely by anyone.
Punan Vuhang regard sugarcane (Saccharum officinarum L.) as different
from other resources and therefore maintain a special form of rights over it.
They cultivate sugarcane for its juice, obtained by chewing the cane. Sugarcane
is planted by sticking a cutting of a stem in the ground. When mature, it
produces offshoots that perpetuate its growth. The second growth stage of the
cane produces the most succulent juice, and these canes are the most valued.
Following this stage, weeds will overgrow most canes, and anyone can collect
the remnants.
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With regard to firewood, after decades of permanent settlement in a single

locality, lingoh trees and other good trees close to the settlement have been
depleted. Individuals now have to travel some distance to obtain quality firewood.
In the near future, various species suitable for firewood within accessible areas,
which in the past were ignored, will probably have rights established over them.
This development of property rights will probably occur first with trees in
secondary forest along riverbanks. Presently, anyone can fell trees in the secondary
forest, and a landowner does not have an automatic claim to standing trees.
In 1975, the government used helicopters to fly in corrugated zinc roofing
and tools to assist the Punan Vuhang to build durable houses. Many large trees
from the nearby forest were felled and sawn into construction materials. From
this experience, the Punan Vuhang realised the need to establish rights to suitable
trees for future construction. Nonetheless, only a few men have established rights
to trees, especially those near the riverbank, to avoid carrying wood on land over
a long distance for further transport by boat.
Over time, young households have added apartments to the longhouse.
Several were constructed over an area of damp ground, and subsequently, the
house posts decayed. In 1986, when a man from the community visited the state
capital (Kuching), he made a request for further assistance. He was told that his
request for a housing project would most likely be approved, in view of the
government’s priority for providing housing to the Penan and Punan. When he
returned, he informed the community of the housing project and they discussed
a possible new longhouse location. They realised that a new longhouse of
15 apartments would require many trees for sawing into posts, columns, and
planks. They would need very hard wood for making posts, and Shorea spp. for
making columns and planks. To obtain these materials, the longhouse site should
be near an abundant source of suitable trees. They decided that the new site
should be located downriver, where suitable trees could be found.
During the meeting, they also decided that each household member should
establish rights to trees suitable for house construction. Since trees were abundant,
most delayed doing so and thought of establishing rights after the delivery of the
housing materials. The delivery by helicopter only came in 1992. Due to the long
lapse after the first notice, few people believed that the government would
actually deliver on its ‘promise’. Consequently, only three men established rights
to trees. When the material was delivered, the community cultivated the 1993–
1994 rice season at the agreed upon longhouse site and, in the process, cleared
land for a new settlement. However, several members changed their minds and
wanted to build their homes at the old site, where many fruit trees were located.
218
Consequently, in 1993, the majority decided to return to the old site, and the
whole community constructed the new longhouse next to the old site.
Some individuals immediately established rights to trees farther upriver, so
that they could transport the wood following the flow of the river current. Those
who did so first selected trees nearest the riverbank. The slower ones had to make
do with trees that required a long walk to the river carrying the sawn planks on
their shoulders. As a result, some resorted to taking other people’s trees. In one
case, the rights holder complained to the headman. Because the rights holder did
not pursue the case, the headman did not take any action. However, one of the
offenders eventually felt embarrassed and left the sawn planks and posts at the
site of the tree.
Before adopting cultivation, the Punan Vuhang never considered the land to
be a resource in its own right. Nonetheless, even though the land did not have
economic value, negative cultural factors could affect the use of an area. When a
death occurred, people had to leave the river valley where the death had occurred.
Until the members of the dead person’s household first returned to the valley,
which could only happen years later, it was forbidden for any other individual to
exploit the resources there: hence, the negative effect of death on the economic
value of an area.
The adoption of cultivation has resulted in the creation of a new system of land
tenure. For the first time, in 1968, the Punan Vuhang established rights to the land
following its cultivation. The system of land tenure that they followed was similar
to that of the Kayan. The individual who first clears an area of primary forest
establishes rights to the future re-use of the land. The establishment of these rights
is recognition of the work required to fell trees for clearing the land. Decaying tree
trunks also contribute to the importance of previously cultivated land, as they
decompose into humus, becoming an important source of nutrients for the soil.
Land has now become a resource that acquires value by being cultivated.
According to Punan Vuhang land tenure rules, the individual holds exclusive
rights to the land, and not the household, as in the case of the Kayan. A Kayan
man who marries into his wife’s household becomes a member of a land-owning
unit. If divorce takes place, the household members may give the divorced male
a portion of land as token compensation for his original assistance in clearing the
land. In contrast, divorce does not nullify a Punan Vuhang man’s rights to any
land that he may have cleared during his marriage. Instead, a divorced wife has
no rights to the land that her ex-husband cleared.
As rights to land are established by felling areas of forest, they are likely to be
affected by the introduction of chainsaws. The Punan Vuhang now use chainsaws
219
instead of axes to fell trees. It is interesting, therefore, to see how land rights have
developed on land cleared with chainsaws. The members of one household
bought a chainsaw by selling rattan products woven by the household head’s
wife, her mother, and grandmother. However, the man did all the rattan
collecting. The acquisition of the chainsaw was therefore made possible by a
combined effort. Since the chainsaw was jointly acquired and became a major
element in clearing land for cultivation, it is possible that a new type of land
rights may develop if divorce were to happen. It is likely that the land would be
shared or divided between the spouses or ex-spouses.
Resource Tenure in Crisis

In the future, the Punan Vuhang are likely to face a major crisis, as their
system of resource tenure is not recognised by the 1958 Sarawak Land Code
and the Sarawak Forests Ordinance. The Land Code grants jurisdiction to
the Land and Survey Department to regulate all matters pertaining to land.
The Forests Ordinance provides the Forest Department jurisdiction over forests
that have been delineated into various categories of forest. Of relevance to the
Punan Vuhang is the category of Permanent Forest Estate, in which the land
covered in forest is reserved for perpetual commercial timber harvesting. Forest
classified as Permanent Forest Estate is classed as Protected Forest under the
Forests Ordinance. Land and forest outside the Protected Forest are under the
jurisdiction of the Land and Survey Department and are therefore regulated by
the Land Code. Consequently, the Punan Vuhang live on land and in forested
areas that are regulated by two different sets of laws: the Land Code and the
Forests Ordinance.
In 1958, the Sarawak Colonial Government enacted the 1958 Land Code to
consolidate the various existing land legislation and repeal all land ordinances
created prior to it (Chan and Lim 1992: 9, Johen 1997: 2). Under the Land
Code, Native Customary Land is the land for which native customary rights
have lawfully been created before 1st January 1958. This legislation has severe
implications for the Punan Vuhang. Section 5 of the Land Code makes it clear
that rights to land established without authorisation for the creation of customary
native rights even before that date are not recognised. As the Punan Vuhang first
began to cultivate land only after 1968, any claim to land rights is effectively
ruled out by this law. The customary rights that they have established since are
inadmissible and deemed illegal.
Nonetheless, with special provisions, customary rights can be created after
1st January 1958. Section 5.–(1) of the Land Code begins with:
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As from the 1st day of January, 1958, native customary rights may be
created in accordance with the native customary law of the community or
communities concerned by any of the methods specified in subsection (2),
if a permit is obtained under section 10, upon Interior Area Land.6
Following subsection (2):

The methods by which native customary rights may be acquired are –
(a) the felling of virgin jungle and the occupation of the land thereby
cleared;
(b) the planting of land with fruit trees;
(c) the occupation or cultivation of land;
(d) the use of land for a burial ground or shrine;
(e) the use of land of any class for rights of way; or
(f) any other lawful method [in the Land Code Amendment 2000, this sub-
section has been omitted]:
Provided that …
(ii) the question whether any such right has been acquired […] be deter-
mined by the law in force immediately prior to the 1st day of January,
1958.
However, subsection (ii) providing for the acquisition of land rights to ‘be
determined by the law in force immediately prior to 1st January 1958’ contradicts
subsection (1), which enables land rights to be created after 1st January 1958.
With this convoluted legal puzzle, it seems futile for the Punan Vuhang to make
an application for land titles.7
While Section 5 would seem to rule out the Punan Vuhang gaining
documentation of their land rights, they can appeal to the minister in charge of
land matters for the declaration of a communal reserve. The Land Code empowers
the minister to ‘by order signified in the Sarawak Gazette declare any area of state
land to be a Native Communal Reserve for the use of any community having a
native system of personal law […] declare that the customary law of such
communities […] shall apply’ (Section 6). With the proper procedures, it is
possible for the Punan Vuhang to apply to the relevant minister to effect the
recognition of land rights. Unfortunately, looking into the trend, even if this
were to be done, it is unlikely that the Sarawak state government will ever issue
any such title (World Rainforest Movement and Sahabat Alam Malaysia 1989:
241–254).
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For the Punan Vuhang, as a former hunting and gathering community that
continues to rely on forest resources, the Forests Ordinance has serious implications.
In Section 36, it states that
No person shall in a protected forest –
(a) erect any building, or clear or break up any land for cultivation or for any
other purpose;
(b) fell, cut, ring, mark, lop or tap any tree, or injure by fire or otherwise any
tree, or remove timber, firewood or charcoal;
(c) take or remove any other forest produce;
(d) pasture cattle or permit cattle to trespass;
(e) cause any damage by negligence in felling any tree or cutting any timber;
(f) quarry stone, burn lime or charcoal or search for minerals;
(g) kindle, keep or carry any fire or leave any fire burning; or,
(h) commit any other acts of trespassing.
Subject to Sections 28 and 30, only those whose ‘right or privilege has been
admitted but was not extinguished’ can exercise subsistence rights or privileges
‘having regard to the natural capacity of the native to enjoy such rights or privileges’
(Section 35.(1)).
The Punan Vuhang’s rights have not been acknowledged, as they made no
claims during the establishment of the Linau Protected Forest that covers the
upriver Linau area. Consequently, even if the Punan Vuhang had a legitimate
claim, their rights or privileges could be deemed null and void by virtue of non-
claim of rights within the stipulated 60 days upon proclamation of a proposed
protected forest (Section 26.(1) (c)). In effect, the law now makes it illegal for the
Punan Vuhang to collect any forest produce. However, Section 65 of the Forests
Ordinance allows any inhabitant of Sarawak the collection of produce in ‘State
land which is not a forest reserve […] exclusively for his own domestic use and
not for sale, barter or profit’.
Depending on how the law is interpreted, Section 36, which prohibits
various forest activities, is in contradiction to Section 65, which provides for
subsistence activities in Protected Forest. However, looking from another
perspective, even if Section 65 is applicable and allows the Punan Vuhang to
collect forest products, in essence the provision is potentially threatening, since
anyone from Sarawak can collect forest resources for domestic use, and logging
roads could provide easy access to outsiders to plunder valuable resources, such
as rattan.
One portion of the Forests Ordinance, Section 40, might give hope to the
Punan Vuhang to apply for a communal forest area, in that
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The Minister may, at the request of a community, constitute any State

land, not being a forest reserve, protected forest or other Government reserve,
a communal forest (my italics for emphasis).
Unfortunately, as the law specifies, forest reserves and protected forests cannot
be declared as communal forest or customary rights land. As the area that the
Punan Vuhang live in is within the Linau Protected Forest, the restriction makes
remote the Punan Vuhang’s chance of being granted an area of communal forest.
The implication of the Forests Ordinance on the Punan Vuhang is that they
are severely restricted in what they can legally do in the protected forest. However,
although the legal implications of Section 36 are severe, in reality, the law has not
been enforced, as the state government has so far allowed native people in Sarawak
to live off the forest and its resources as they have done from time immemorial.
It would be a possible violation of human rights to prevent them from continuing
their livelihood. Further, it is against Article 5 of the Malaysian Federal
Constitution, the supreme law of the land, to deprive anyone of his livelihood.
Even if the government were to be strict, it would be difficult to enforce the law,
given that the Punan Vuhang are a great distance from administrative centres.
Besides, due to the small number of people in the community (70 persons in
1995), their impact on the forest is minimal.
Regarding the future, the Punan Vuhang are already wary of the impending
arrival of logging companies that will bring with them acute environmental
destruction. In 1994, when hunters went to a distant mountain in the direction
of the Balui headwaters, they heard a faint roaring sound. They went on to
investigate, and it took them a week to walk to the area and find that logging
tractors were the source of this noise.
When pondering the impending impact of logging, the Punan Vuhang are
greatly concerned about forest degradation. They have seen that although only
trees with commercial value will be harvested, the impact on surrounding trees
will be critical, including fruit trees that provide food for wildlife. The use of
tractors in pulling and dragging out logs will expose the soil, which will then be
washed away into streams and rivers. Consequently, rivers will become polluted,
causing the fish population to dwindle. The construction of roads requires
levelling of land at the tops of hill ridges and mountain ranges, and this will cause
soil to be pushed down the slopes. Exposed soil covering an entire slope will
destroy all its resources and become a further cause of erosion and pollution.
The criss-crossing of logging roads, tractor tracks and the formation of
new streams due to the changed physical landscape will affect wildlife habitats.
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The drone of chainsaws and tractors will cause animals to flee, and hunters will
then have to travel much further to areas unaffected by logging activities to
obtain meat.
While the Punan Vuhang’s fears may be exaggerated, the work of Bruenig
(1996: 88–89, 113), a forester with much experience of logging in Sarawak,
suggests that these concerns may be justified. Bruenig reports that the extensive
removal of the tree canopy and tractor drivers bulldozing their way without pre-
planning completely alters the structure and function of the physical ecosystem
and its quality as a potentially renewable resource.
In essence, the Punan Vuhang know that they face a grim future, as their
hunting skills will no longer allow them to bring back meat from a drastically
changed environment. Making the situation worse will be hunters from downriver
coming into their territory in four-wheel-drive vehicles to hunt animals for
trade purposes. They have seen how communities that have experienced logging
face serious social problems. The lure of fast cash from logging compensation has
caused many to turn to alcohol to drown their frustrations.
They know that the payment of ‘goodwill’ money before a logging company
enters their territory is to initiate a friendly relationship to prevent reactions
against logging. Every household will receive some monetary payment to cover
river pollution, and the community will receive financial gifts during festive
seasons. Affected households will be paid a token compensation if their swidden
and secondary forest lands under fallow are damaged by logging activities. The
logging company will pay some allowance to the headman and his assistant,
and the committee members for logging affairs, to keep them on friendly terms.
In most cases, this gesture of financial compensation serves to engender hostile
intra-community relationships, as the majority of the community’s rights will
not be recognised, and many of their requests ignored.
Depending on the informal policy of each logging company, some form of
commission payment, based on the volume of timber, will be paid to the
community if they can establish a claim over a forest without being challenged
by another community. The Punan Vuhang have begun to put up marks on trees
and caves in areas that they exploited in the past. This is especially the case in the
upper reaches of the Linau and Danum Rivers, where no other community has
been known to live previously. They believe that they can prove their territorial
right to these locations by the presence of three long stones inserted into the
ground, which previously served as stands to hold a pot while cooking. Over the
years, moss has covered these stones, proving that they were not deliberately put
there to claim compensation.
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How the Punan Vuhang will actually respond to the forces of logging can
perhaps be seen by the reaction of the neighbouring Penan communities living
in the Belaga area. It is likely that their complaints to government authorities
will not bring any positive results, since they have not done so for others, to
date. Without support from NGO activists and a cohesive purposeful
community force in the Belaga area to resist logging, it is unlikely that the
Punan Vuhang will put up blockades against logging, as the Penan of the
upper Baram River have done (for further discussion of this issue, see Brosius
in this volume).
CONCLUSION
Whereas in the past the Punan Vuhang were able to remain free of the influence
of external forces by moving to places uninhabited by others, events of the last
decade of the twentieth century, in the form of logging, have begun to pose a
serious threat to them. As we have seen, the Sarawak Land Code and Forests
Ordinance do not favour them but instead serve as the legal basis by which
the logging industry is able to expand into previously unexploited areas. As the
impact is related to industrial development initiated by the modern nation-state,
the position of the Punan Vuhang needs to be seen in the context of the laws
that have relevance to them. As of the year 2000, logging operations are a day’s
walk from their settlement at Long Lidem, and it remains to be seen how the
Punan Vuhang will actually deal with the eventual arrival and incursion of these
outside forces.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The data for this chapter were collected during fieldwork from 1993 to 1995,
as well as during subsequent visits. My gratitude is extended to Clifford Sather,
Peter Sercombe, and Bernard Sellato for their comments on this paper and to
Louise Sather for her editing.
NOTES
1. Lake’ Dian Lulo Kasut, the paramount chief of the Kayan who unified all Kayan,
had a brother born with the umbilical cord wound round him. As this was a bad
omen, the baby was abandoned. The Punan Vuhang found him, adopted him,
and named him Sigoh Garing. Years later, when Lake’ Dian became aware of his
225
relationship with Sigoh Garing, the two brothers made an oath that the Kayan and
the Punan Vuhang would always be blood brothers.
2. According to an informant, it was through this deceptive scheming that the Iban
also decimated the Lisum and the Penan Bunut – see a Sarawak Gazette report: ‘This
act [of killing Lisum] was committed by a party of mischievous young Dyaks [Iban]
who were supposed to have been on a gutta hunting expedition’ (SG 1907: 135).
3. Due to the difficulty of transportation along the Kihan–Kajang route, the Indonesian
army abandoned the idea of invasion through this pass. Nonetheless, there were
concentrations of soldiers across the border, and the British army had to guard the
border. Camping and moving about together with the Punan Vuhang was of mutual
benefit to both parties. If the Indonesian soldiers were to enter Sarawak, the Punan
Vuhang, being forest ‘wanderers’, would spot the intruders first. The British soldiers,
therefore, did not have to patrol so intensely. For the Punan Vuhang, the soldiers’
presence provided security. This arrangement suited the British strategy that had ‘put
great stress on mobility, constantly patrolling the remote jungle paths and harrying
intruders whenever they found them’ (Mackie 1974: 211).
4. During the early years of adopting cultivation, the community consisted of many
young men who motivated and challenged each other to fell big trees and clear large
tracts of land. Nowadays, the availability of the chainsaw enables them to again cut
big trees in old forest land.
5. While this may seem obvious, the opposite is the case for the Penan, another hunter-
gatherer people living downriver of the Punan Vuhang. The Penan practise a form
of demand sharing over all forms of resources, naturally occurring or cultivated.
It is probably for this reason that they have not been very successful cultivators, as
some groups do not enforce members’ exclusive rights over their crops. Only recently
have the Penan adopted the notion of private property over their crops (Kedit et al.
2001: 32).
6. However, Section 10 maintains that the exercise of rights or privileges in Native Area
Land can only be carried out under a valid and subsisting document of entitlement.
Without a prior permit in writing from a Superintendent of the Land and Survey
Department, it is an offence to fell or attempt to fell virgin jungle or attempt to create
customary rights in Interior Area Land. For a better understanding, the following
related categories of land are defined: Native Area Land is the land held by a native
under a document of title; Native Customary Land is the land in which native customary
rights, whether communal or otherwise, have lawfully been created prior to the
1st day of January 1958, and still exist as such; Interior Area Land is the land that
does not fall within any of the definitions of Reserved Land, Customary Land,
Native Area Land, or Mixed Zone Land, in which Reserved Land is the land reserved
for special purposes, including National Parks, Forest Reserve, Protected Forestry, or
Communal Forest constituted under the Forests Ordinance; and Mixed Zone Land
consists of land held under title by all legal inhabitants of Sarawak.
7. See the works of Daes (1997), “United Nations Special Rapporteur” on the problem
of land rights between the state and indigenous people, and Martinez (1996) on the
problem of treaties and laws affecting the rights of indigenous people.
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Chapter 10
CONTINUITY AND ADAPTATION

AMONG THE PENAN OF BRUNEI
By Peter G. Sercombe
Abstract: This chapter provides etic as well as emic sketches of the Penan’s situation
in Brunei, in the form of an ethnographic description, and contrasts this with pat-
terns of existence prior to their transition to sedentism in 1962. This juxtaposition
is used to elicit and account for the forms and modes of transition that the Penan
in Brunei have undergone (or themselves initiated) during the period since they first
settled in Brunei.
INTRODUCTION
The Penan of Brunei Darussalam comprise an ethnic isolate of 56 persons who
inhabit Sukang Village, in the interior of Brunei’s Belait District (see Map 10.1).
Until Antaran’s (1986) description, little information had emerged regarding
Penan in Brunei, compared to more detailed descriptions of the Eastern Penan
in Sarawak (e.g., Needham 1953; for further details of the Eastern Penan, see
the introduction; and Needham in this volume). Antaran’s article on the Penan
in Sukang (1986) largely comprises a general description of Eastern Penan
characteristics and provides little in the way of specific information about the
Penan community. Where details are given, these have now dated considerably
(for example, barter trade, which no longer occurs), and updated information is
given later in this chapter.
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Map 10.1. Location of Penan Sukang
Physical location, gradually emerging affiliations within Brunei, certain

aspects of their socio-economic circumstances, along with other socio-cultural
features, demonstrate that the Penan Sukang differ from Eastern Penan
communities in Sarawak, in a number of significant ways (Sercombe 1996b),
largely due to the national, areal, and local social and geographical environments
that they now inhabit. At the same time, the Penan Sukang can be considered
integral to the Eastern Penan ethnic congeries (which otherwise only occupy
certain parts of north-eastern Sarawak), due to their close historical links –
including consanguine and affinal relationships – with Penan in Sarawak,
particularly with inhabitants of the village of Long Buang, a village on the Apoh,
a tributary of the Tutoh River, in neighbouring Sarawak (ibid.).
This chapter, which is largely an outline ethnographic description, provides a
thumbnail delineation of the Penan Sukang’s history, social organisation, culture,
economics, and patterns of language use. This report results from a number of
separate periods I spent with the Penan between 1992 and 2000 during which
the aim was to elicit features of social and cultural continuity, alongside
228
Continuity and Adaptation among the Penan of Brunei
adjustments that they have made since they settled permanently in Brunei.
The account draws together observations in the form of an overall impression of
their contemporary circumstances.
HISTORY
The earliest published reference to Penan in Brunei, of which I am aware, is by
Andreini (1928: 144), who reports meeting Punans (sic) from Belait who were
moving back into Sarawak territory. The next earliest reference was in a Brunei
Annual Report (Davis 1948), regarding ‘nomadic Punans’ (sic). Subsequently,
Harrisson (1949a: 130) mentioned that ‘[i]n the 1947 census of Sarawak and
Brunei […] Punans [sic] were located […] 29 were in Brunei’, and a later Brunei
Government Report (1955: 12) stated that ‘[i]n one area (Ulu Belait), there is
to be found, but only after careful pre-arrangement, a small group of Punans
[sic] – the real jungle people – or as sometimes referred to, the wild Men [sic]
of Borneo’. Urquhart (1958) also suggested that the ‘Pennan’ (sic) are ‘perhaps
in the ulu Belait’.1 Harrisson (1975c: 42) further proposed that a small number
of Penan had ‘for decades […] come over sporadically from the Tutoh behind
Marudi across into the Ulu Belait in Brunei’.
What is known is that before moving towards the Belait District, the Eastern
Penan, who now live permanently in Brunei, had foraged in the Linei River basin
(a tributary of the Tutoh, in Sarawak), the group elder being Tiung Uan, the
current elder’s uncle (Martin and Sercombe 1992) and were closely allied with
Penan who reside in Long Buang (on the Apoh River, in Sarawak), having
‘migrated together from Pelutan via Malinau to Linei where they split, one group
to Belait and one to Long Buang’ (Needham 1953: 399–401). Needham
maintained that those from Long Buang had themselves previously been foragers
in the Penipir River area, in the southern part of the Belait District of Brunei.
It is known that, in the period immediately prior to 1962, the Penan Sukang
had been full-time hunter-gatherers in the interior of the Belait District, in the
southern part of Brunei’s western enclave. The present group elder, Luyah Kaling,
has declared that the band foraged in an area stretching from the Kerawan and
Penipir Rivers (tributaries of the Belait River) and further north along the Belait
River as far as Sukang Village, as well as east to the headwaters of the Tutong
River, in Brunei. At this time, the group also occasionally ventured south across
the watershed that forms Brunei’s southern border with the Malaysian state of
Sarawak, to the Tutoh and Malinau river areas north of Mount Mulu, to interact
with other Eastern Penan in Sarawak. Nowadays, the Brunei–Malaysia border is
229
more closely patrolled, discouraging free movement between the states, where
there exist no official crossing points, in order to discourage illicit extraction of
Brunei’s natural resources from the rainforest and also to prevent unofficial entry
into the country.
Some Penan in the ulu (upriver) areas of Brunei returned to the Penan
settlement of Long Buang on the Apoh River in Sarawak (which had been
established in 1928) during the early 1940s, to avoid the Japanese occupation
in Brunei (Antaran 1986).2 Prior to settlement, the Penan band in Brunei
occasionally bartered with the Dusun in Sukang, to obtain tobacco, salt, and
clothes, for which they exchanged blowpipes and rubber latex. It is claimed that,
at that time, Penan already knew some Malay, which they would have acquired
through trade with Chinese and sporadic interaction with local officials, and
that the Dusun also acquired some knowledge of their language through trade
meetings (Jamal Gantar, a Dusun from Sukang, pers. comm.).3 It was during
these barter trade meetings that the Penan were eventually persuaded to settle by
the local Dusun, who in turn had been encouraged to lobby the Penan by the
local Belait District officer at the time. According to both Dusun and Penan,
this district officer, a (British) colonial administrator, was a prime mover in
initiating the Penan transition to settlement.
Finally, in 1962, Legai Madang, the then elder of the Penan band, made an
agreement with the Belait District office to move into a longhouse in Sukang
Village. Single family shelters in the forest (the standard type of nomadic Eastern
Penan accommodation), normally located on ridge tops, were given up for a
longhouse constructed from wood donated by a local Chinese sawmill. Twenty-
one Penan settled next to the Dusun longhouse, on the right (or eastern) bank of
the river in Sukang. These were later joined by 15 more Penan (Leake 1990:
105).
Legai reported that his band of Penan had originally come from the Pelutan
River area of Sarawak (as mentioned above by Needham), an eastern tributary of
the Baram River, south of the small administrative and commercial centre
of Long Lama (located on the banks of the Baram). He also included, as part of
Penan Pelutan, those who lived and still inhabit the villages of Batu Bungan,
Long Iman, and Long Buang, each of which is located in the Tutoh and Apoh
river areas of north-eastern Sarawak (around 50 km south of Sukang). Some
Penan in Sukang also claim that they originate from the Selungo River, a
tributary of the Baram farther south than the Pelutan, from which they had
migrated north during an earlier period. However, the Penan in Brunei now refer
to themselves as Penan Belait or Penan Sukang.4
230
Luyah Kaling, the current Penan Sukang elder, does not know exactly nor is
he greatly concerned about when Penan moved north to hunt and gather in
Brunei.5 Following the death of Legai in 1973, Luyah became and continues to
be the Penan community elder (as well as the oldest surviving Penan in Brunei),
having been chosen by Penan longhouse members, with official sanction from
the Sukang Sub-district penghulu, Simpok, a Dusun.
Typically, the Eastern Penan in the interior of the Baram Division of Sarawak
maintain fairly regular social contact with other Penan villages (through personal
visits to close and extended family relatives), but the Penan Sukang have been
without continuous close physical contact with other Eastern Penan groups in
Sarawak since they settled in 1962 (see Sather 1995: 258), although sporadic
contact has been maintained in other ways, which are described in subsequent
sections of this chapter.
DEMOGRAPHY
Penan Sukang have moved from being a hill-top residing nomadic group
to a sedentary riverine community, an almost universal phenomenon among
Eastern Penan who have given up full-time nomadism for sedentism (see Rousseau
1990: 218). Rivers became, for many settled Penan, the new conduits of
communication once they settled, replacing forest paths. This has again been
changing in the last decade or so, with the increasing number of logging roads
penetrating the interior of Sarawak, providing a cheaper and faster means of
communication than rivers (albeit at considerable social and environmental cost,
a fuller consideration of which is beyond the scope of this study, but see Chan
in this volume).
For the Penan Sukang, the Belait River became and remains the main means
of physical communication. Although the Penan commenced their settled
existence on the right (or eastern) bank of the Belait River in Sukang, they
subsequently moved to the left bank (becoming physically removed from
neighbouring groups), where they have remained until now. The third, most
recently constructed Penan longhouse was completed in 1982. Its basic layout is
not unlike that of an orang ulu (‘upriver people’) longhouse, in the style and
position of the roofed veranda (since it is without an open Iban veranda for drying
padi or hill rice) and the internal arrangement of separate family compartments.
Presently, the longhouse is in great need of repair or replacement.
The number of Penan in Brunei was first officially recorded as 29 (Harrisson
1949a), although it is likely that the number of nomadic Penan in the Belait
231
District was considerably higher before the Japanese occupation in World War II
(Antaran 1986). Around the time of their settlement, some Penan adult males
moved back to and married into Long Buang in Sarawak (ibid.). When
McLoughlin (1976) conducted a physical morphological study among the Penan
Sukang, the group size totalled 34. Seitz (1981: 279–280) recorded the number
as being 39 in 1979, and it was apparently between 40 and 42 in 1980 (Groome
and Waggitt 1990).
There has been some exogamy since the group settled in 1962 (discussed
further below); there were also three infant deaths in 1980 (which may have
contributed towards the move across river), but there have been no other
upheavals, such as group fission or a fatal epidemic. The current total living in
the Penan longhouse (in 2000) is 56 people. Group size has increased a little less
than 100 per cent since their population was first recorded in 1948; this seems to
have been slightly less than the general increase in numbers among other Eastern
Penan groups in Sarawak who have taken up a settled existence (for further
discussion, see Sercombe 1996b).
Apart from ethnic Penan, there is an Iban and a Bisaya’ (both adult females), as
well as a son of the Bisaya’ woman, in the Penan longhouse – these women origin-
ating from Limbang in Sarawak but then married into the Penan community.
Outside Sukang Village, there is a Penan male who lives between Sukang Village
and the Iban longhouse of Biadong Ulu, having married an Iban from there. There
are also eight Penan living in the Brunei coastal town of Kuala Belait and two
more in Tutong town, but relatively few, compared to the number of Dusun and
Iban who have migrated from Sukang Sub-district to coastal areas of Brunei.
Younger Penan adults who have left school but not yet married are all (except two)
living at home (see Groome and Waggitt 1990).
More recently, the Penan have been granted land by the government, and
some have also been provided with timber (also by the government) to
construct separate homes on the right (or eastern) bank of the river. None
has so far built a new dwelling across the river, apart from the headman, and
even he continues to reside mostly in the Penan longhouse (on the river’s left
bank).
SOCIAL FEATURES
This chapter takes a configurationist view that the Penan maintain a cluster of
distinct characteristics that clearly distinguish them from other groups throughout
Brunei. One of the major features of the Penan is that they traditionally represent
232
what has been described as a cold (vs hot) society without institutionalised social
hierarchies (see Lévi-Strauss, cited in Wiseman and Groves 1997; see also Sellato
in this volume). Social stability is maintained largely through a balance of
egalitarianism and in-group symbiosis. This remains largely the situation among
the Penan Sukang, such that, relatively speaking, ‘there is harmony between
societal and individual needs’ (Duranti 1997: 57).
Compared to the large number of social roles in more modern industrial
societies, Penan Sukang relationships provide clear examples of mainly kin-
based networks that carry clear rights and obligations with regard to all
members of the group. For the Penan Sukang, their kin and social lives
generally comprise and concern every member of the community (see
Needham 1971: 204, and in this volume; also, Siskind 1973: 52), constituting
a series of dense social networks such that individuals are bound together in
multiplex consanguine and affinal relationships.6 All Penan adults in Sukang
categorise themselves as part of the group, although a number of them
nowadays have begun to develop close affiliations and cultural affinities with
neighbouring Iban.
Community Rules and Leadership

As Ellen (1994: 202–203) has written, ‘[m]any food-collecting populations
neither require, nor have the opportunity to create, much by the way of social
institutions’. This still applies to the Penan in Sukang, even though food
collecting is now but one means of production, as discussed in more detail under
‘Economics’, below.
A Penan elder’s role traditionally carries no institutional authority. As Needham
(in this volume) has stated, a ‘group is usually headed by a recognised elder but he
has no real power. Relative age is the most general and the most important social
differential, but there are no age sets or recognised age grades’. The group elder,
Luyah Kaling, however, now earns a monthly salary, for his official position as
‘headman’, which also requires that he has contact with government officials on a
regular basis. In part, he has become a state emissary. He still has no socially
prescribed authority within the group, but his official position and the salary
that he receives reflect authority ascribed from outside. While Penan relations
among the group remain important, in terms of material reciprocity and family
obligations, Luyah’s material wealth reflects a new status, both among the Penan
and within the village community, as an officially sanctioned government
representative.7
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Family Organisation
The concept of the Penan Sukang household is one of a nuclear family unit.
One reason that extended family units remain small in Sukang is that there are
no Penan grandparents residing among the group. Beyond nuclear family units,
there is just one divorcee, an unmarried uncle, and a widow, who stay with their
closest family relatives (on Penan family sizes, see Needham in this volume).
The lack of Penan elders reflects an age-group vacuum and has probably acted
to diminish certain aspects of Penan life in Sukang. This vacuum is keenly felt
by the community, as has been vigorously articulated by a number of Penan
adults.
Commensality remains a fundamental act of social solidarity, and the Penan
eat together as nuclear families but not in larger groups’, unless visitors are present
and non-family community members feel that they can partake as their right to
welcome and spend time with outsiders as part of a larger social occasion. This is
also the case if guests or other community members have brought food, drink, or
news to share with their hosts, and are making more than the most perfunctory
visit.
While among other Eastern Penan groups living parents may still be referred
to directly as Tama (father), or Tinen (mother), followed by the name of their
eldest child, this no longer occurs in Sukang, where all individuals of school age
and above are now mostly referred to by their given names.
There are not and have never been rituals associated with birth (Luyah Kaling,
pers. comm.). There are no special taboos or proscribed foods for pre- or post-
natal mothers, and nowadays women give birth in Sukang Village clinic, rather
than among the Penan themselves; this is encouraged by the health authorities,
in case of medical complications.
Children have never undergone special initiations or training between birth
and adulthood (ibid.). When old enough, daughters help to look after younger
siblings or relatives’ children, especially since there is presently an absence of
grandparents in Sukang. School-age children, who are able to, help with rice
planting and harvesting nowadays, but there has been a decline in knowledge of
the fauna and flora of the rainforest among younger Penan, particularly among
those now under 20 years of age.
No longer are deceased Penan left in locations important to them (in primary
rainforest), but they are now buried locally in a community graveyard and,
as with other potentially significant social events, no specific ceremonies take
place. It is told that, following a death among the Penan Sukang, an atui (a
percussion instrument consisting of a log rested horizontally across the V sections
234
of vertically placed crossed pieces of smaller logs) is played by striking the top
with sticks (Arin Paren, pers. comm.), but no deaths among the Penan have
occurred since I first came to know the members of this group, in 1992.8
Sharing
Penan in Sukang continue the convention of reciprocally sharing wild game,
when it is obtained, with other longhouse members, as well as surplus rice if
a family is in need (see Hong 1987: 23), a form of prestation. Sharing among
Penan in Sukang (and elsewhere), nonetheless, only extends to perishable
items; they are under no obligation to share money or other durable goods (see
Needham 1953: 133–134). Not sharing food, however, would be tantamount
to denying community relationships (see Siskind 1973: 9; Marshall 1976: 370).
In fact, stinginess with regard to food remains taboo among Penan in Sukang
and elsewhere among many Eastern Penan in remote areas where there is still a
reasonable supply of game, although the sharing of wild meat no longer occurs
among some communities of Eastern Penan in the middle Baram areas of
north-eastern Sarawak. This is mainly a result of the greater economic pressures
that they have suffered (Sercombe 1996b). A consequence is that Penan from
Sukang do not sell or trade meat and, thus, a potential source of income is
lost. In comparison, Iban from Sukang Sub-district occasionally sell wild boar
downriver, at Pengkalan Mau, early on Sunday mornings, from which they
derive cash income.
Marriage and Formal Relationships with

Neighbouring Groups
Penan marriage customs are relatively simple and flexible and, similar to other
rites of social passage, marriages are not celebrated in any special way. Eastern
Penan (including those in Sukang) can and continue to marry first cousins, and
endogamous marriage in Sukang has remained more common than marriage
outside the Penan group (ibid.). There remains, in theory, the idea of a bride price
(of a blowpipe), but this is no longer generally honoured (Luyah Kaling, pers.
comm.), and there are no rules regarding post-marital residence. Some Penan
mothers and one father have said that they would like their daughters to marry
a man who is not a subsistence farmer, and many parents perceive there being
more chance of a daughter marrying exogamously than a son. Penan adults’
aspirations are understandable, given the less physically arduous life endured by
those in Sukang Sub-district, such as teachers, the village policeman, and health
assistants, and what they are seen to earn for their work.
235
From 1962 to 1983, there were only two exogamous marriages, both of which
ended in divorce. In more recent times, during which there has been an increase
in marriage outside the group, this has mostly involved Penan women marrying
non-Penan, resulting in couples moving elsewhere.9 Those Penan not married to
others in the Penan group have been betrothed to Iban, Chinese, Malay, or
Dusun but mostly to the former. There is also one unmarried, middle-aged
(aged 48) Penan man (an unusual occurrence among Penan) in 2000.10
Non-Formal Relationships with Other Groups

Nearly 50 years ago, Needham (1953: 162) stated that ‘Eastern Penan are slow,
patient, open, friendly, ingenuous’. I have found no reason to disagree with this in
relationships established and maintained with Eastern Penan, in either Sarawak
or Brunei.
For Penan in Sukang, social contacts are predominantly primary with few
secondary relations, i.e., the people they know are also those with whom they
mostly come into regular daily contact. For Luyah Kaling, the group elder, like
for most other adult Penan in Sukang, consanguine and affinal relations with
Penan in Sarawak remain important, as they have stated (and as may be inferred
from the historical connections described above, even though Penan from Sukang
are rarely able to travel to Sarawak). This has been demonstrated by Luyah’s two
visits, in recent years, to Long Buang (in Sarawak) when, on one occasion, he
bought a diesel-powered generator so that the people of Long Buang could thresh
rice by machine and have electric light in their village. Penan in Sukang are
always eager for news of Long Buang and are curious about my visits there and
when I intend to go again. Until recently, significant events in Long Buang were
communicated by telephone to a Penan woman married and living in an army
camp in the Tutong District of Brunei. Nowadays, communication can occur
directly with the Penan longhouse in Sukang, where incoming telephone calls
can now be received.
Since 1962, there have been no Penan visitors to Sukang from Long Buang or
from any other Penan communities in Sarawak (see Sellato 1990a). Reasons for
this include the expense involved in making the journey (stemming from the
difficulty in earning cash for those living in the interior of Sarawak), the expense,
time, and logistical difficulties of obtaining a Malaysian passport, as well as the
problem of access since there is no public transport along the Belait River.
While the Penan in Sukang have been settled for nearly 40 years, they remain
sympathetic towards the idea of full-time nomadism and Penan hunter-gatherers
(see Voeks and Sercombe 2000), although they are no longer familiar with any
236
nomadic bands. Many fully settled Penan in Sarawak, however, tend to be

disparaging of nomadic Penan,11 and it has been observed that ‘[a]griculturalists
see nomads as inferior and the latter behave as if they accept this evaluation’
(Rousseau 1990: 245). This observation is not novel; many observers (e.g., Douglas
1906: 68, among others) have described exploitation and even persecution of Penan
by settled peoples. Needham (1953: 89) maintained that Eastern Penan ‘accept in
their mild fashion the indifference, the rudeness, and the maltreatment that
accompanies the lowly political status that is accorded them by settled tribes’.
Whatever the treatment of Eastern Penan in general (whether nomadic or settled),
the attitude of others towards them has tended to remain one of condescension.
Penan Sukang are aware of their lower status in relation to other local groups and
of the ways in which they are perceived as socially inferior by their neighbours.
As Rousseau (1990: 71) also mentioned of previously nomadic Borneans, ‘[f]ormer
nomads still bear the stigma of their origin’.
Penan Sukang do not, however, live in vassalage to their neighbours (like
some Eastern Penan in Sarawak do, albeit considerably less than before), although
the local Dusun would like to employ Penan during periods of rice planting and
(particularly) harvesting when they are otherwise overstretched. Penan will
sometimes undertake harvesting work for Dusun, but have not infrequently
complained that they are not paid enough (at B$ 20 a day, the normal rate for
unskilled labour) or sometimes not paid at all, that they have to work too hard,
or that they have other commitments.
When a piped-water system was installed in Sukang Village, the local Chinese
contractor (also the village shopkeeper since 1962, locally known as Panjang)
hired foreign labour (workers from Thailand) rather than villagers, particularly
the Penan. He does not hold a positive view of the Penan and will not extend
credit to them – this being a common way of doing business between shopkeepers
and villagers in isolated rural settings throughout interior parts of Brunei and
Sarawak; neither do the Penan attempt to fraternise with Panjang.
Sather (1995: 229) has perceived the Penan, in general (like other Austronesian
hunter-gatherers), as ‘parties to a process of symbiosis with agriculturalists which
has continued for several millennia’. This seems no longer to be the case, in
general terms, and is certainly not the situation in Sukang, partly for the reason
that Dusun and Iban no longer need or desire jungle products or craft items
(such as damar, a resin that is burned to provide illumination; gaharu, or
eaglewood, for the production of incense; bezoar stones for spiritual purposes;
wild latex for rubber; or blowpipes for hunting), the kinds of items that Penan
would have traded in the past.
237
While informal relations with village neighbours do not appear dynamic in

terms of social interaction (in the same way that they are between Dusun and
Iban, with considerable successful cross-group cooperation and intermarriage),
the Penan Sukang have formed out-group alliances with Iban. This may well be
because Penan social institutions are structurally more compatible with those
of the Iban than with the social organisation of other groups. For example, both
groups are considered immigrant to Brunei, and they are both traditionally
less socially hierarchical than other Bornean groups in Brunei. These common
characteristics would appear, on the surface at least, to allow for easier integration
between Iban and Penan. In day-to-day dealings, Iban are generally accommodating
towards the Penan, in addition to which Penan regularly attend Iban festive
occasions.12 Some older Penan children maintain that Iban customs (e.g., miring,
a ceremony involving offerings of thanks) are the same as those of the Penan, and
that these are sometimes performed in the home of Luyah Kaling, the Penan
elder. In fact, Penan have no history of miring; if this is seen by some Penan (in
Sukang) as a Penan practice, it suggests the extent to which some Penan may wish
to identify with Iban (for further discussion of this, see Sercombe 1996b; and see
Nagata 1979). In addition, there is also a lack of eligible Penan marriage partners
in Brunei, due to the small size of the group.13 Certainly, marriage with other
Penan and residence in Sarawak is nowadays seen as less attractive, since Penan in
Sukang are keenly aware of the widespread material hardships suffered by many
Penan across the border, many of whom have lost portions of their land to logging,
in the interior of Malaysian Sarawak.
Beyond Penan earshot, however, there are a number of impressions of the
Penan held by Dusun and Iban in Sukang District. Both the primary school
headmaster and a Dusun teacher from Sukang still believe that the Penan bride
price is one blowpipe, and feel this to be highly amusing, although there is no
longer such a practice (reflecting a lack of familiarity with Penan customs).
Another preconception is that the Penan are highly knowledgeable in and about
the rainforest. This notion is sometimes disproportionate to reality, as evidence
suggests that Penan knowledge of rainforest flora (if not fauna) is deep but not
necessarily as broad as that of some settled peoples (Voeks and Sercombe 2000;
Voeks, this volume). Another impression is that Penan are seen as lazy, and that,
despite being very competent hunters, they hunt game infrequently and rely
more on traps and fishing than on their blowpipes. Iban and Dusun also cannot
comprehend why the Penan do not appear to live in a more systematic way,
i.e., in the same way as themselves.14 The village primary school headmaster
(an Iban who converted to Islam) has said that the Penan make tuak (rice wine)
238
from the tampoi fruit (known botanically as Baccaurea), and frowns upon this
habit.15 One Dusun teacher (from outside Sukang Sub-district), who had been at
the school seven years, had a very negative view of the Penan because, he said,
they drink and allow their children to drink, and because they are considered
dirty and do not heed the advice that they are given.
It seems that the community status of Penan adults in Sukang (and their
children) is evaluated, roughly, according to a number of criteria overshadowed
by one factor: When ‘[a] nomad […] becomes sedentary […] he enters the lowest
part of the sedentary scale’ (Glatzer 1982: 72), an assertion that also reflects
traditionally settled neighbours’ current perceptions of the Penan in Sukang.
Other considerations include the following: whether a Penan is married and, if
so, from which ethnic group the Penan’s spouse originates; the extent of a Penan
family’s farm; the amount and condition of non-perishable materials owned by a
Penan (e.g., outboard engine, boat, etc.); the physical appearance of a Penan
family and its members, and whether or not female Muslim converts wear
headscarves; whether or not alcohol is drunk by a Penan (especially if s/he is a
Muslim convert), apart from during festival occasions; if shoes or other footwear
are worn; the degree of academic success of a Penan family’s children; the
degree to which a family and its members are seen as industrious; and the range
of languages and speech styles at their command. In most cases, the Penan
Sukang are assessed as low in all these categories. In addition, Penan women have
weak, almost non-existent, ties with women from neighbouring groups, and the
latter state that they look down on many Penan women for their apparently
liberal drinking habits, for looking scruffy, and for the relatively dishevelled state
of Penan children.
The village primary school is an environment in which Penan children come
into regular contact with neighbours and with teachers from outside the district.
While Penan children (in the lower primary levels of the school) appear to have
Dusun and Iban friends, I have never seen a non-Penan child enter the Penan
longhouse. Furthermore, the headmaster, local and non-local teachers, and
school cooks all hold negative impressions of Penan children, which seem to
affect the ways in which they interact with these children in the school.
For the Penan, contact with Bruneians who are from outside Sukang is mostly
with school teachers, nearly all of whom have never entered the Penan longhouse,
contrasting with their frequent visits to the Dusun longhouse in Sukang.
There is also the Penan relationship with the central government. This is
mostly through the district office and via the Penan elder and, in this, Luyah
Kaling is a kind of cultural broker among the Penan (see Dahlan and Wan
239
Hashim 1979: 41). There are, however, issues that the Penan feel further reflect
their social position. The land that they occupy (on the western or left side of the
Belait River) is government owned, and the Penan have no rights of cultivation,
needing official permission just to cut down a tree. Penan adults living but not
born in Sukang are not full Brunei citizens, although their children, registered as
being born locally, are granted full citizenship (see Azmi 1990: 9); all Penan are
still categorised as ‘Other Indigenous’, rather than ‘Full Indigenous’ citizens of
Brunei. The officially posted sign on the riverbank declares Rumah Panjang
Punan (‘Punan Longhouse’), but punan means ‘fight’ in Penan, which is ironic
since the Penan are well known for their pacifism and abhorrence of violence.
Contact with staff from the Pusat Dakwah (‘Centre for the Propagation of
Islam’, a section of the ministry of Religious Affairs), in the capital of Brunei, has
been ongoing and of a transactional nature since 1992. Employees of the centre
have been encouraging Penan (as well as others in Sukang, and elsewhere) to
become Muslim, since 1992 when the centre was given the role of coordinating
‘Visit ASEAN Year’ with respect to villages in the interior of the Belait District
(see also the section on ‘Beliefs’, below).16
Finally, with respect to Brunei at large, in a recent informal survey of some
first-, second- and third-year students at the Universiti Brunei Darussalam, not
one (out of 80) knew of the existence of Penan in Brunei (some not even having
heard of this ethnic category), which reflects the degree of unfamiliarity and lack
of contact between Penan and urban coastal dwellers in Brunei.
CULTURAL FEATURES
The concern here is with the various codes that shape social organisation, and ‘a
system of participation’ (Duranti 1997: 46), as well as those elements ‘which can
be learned or transmitted’ (Cavalli-Sforza and Feldman 1981: 10).
Regarding Eastern Penan culture, Needham (in this volume) has remarked
that it is ‘characterised by a relatively meagre […] inventory’, and this is certainly
the case for the Penan Sukang, perhaps even more so now, in a non-material
sense, than during the period (the 1950s) when Needham carried out fieldwork
among Eastern Penan in Sarawak.
Material Culture
In terms of appearance, Penan males in Sukang have long since given up wearing
the loin cloth that distinguished them (and other Dayak) from coastal Malays
240
and Chinese. Luyah Kaling, the elder, wore a loin cloth until 1997, but was
laughed at by Penan children, to the extent that he took to wearing trousers.
He alone, among the Penan in Sukang, continues to sport a traditional Dayak
haircut, cut straight around the head with a long pony tail, as well as extended
earlobes (see McLoughlin 1976: 103).17 Nearly all the Penan Sukang have poor
teeth, largely as a consequence of consuming sweets, sweetened drinks, and
processed foods, while many do not brush their teeth, despite entreaties from
government dentists when they visit the village (Udhi Kutok, pers. comm.).
However, there are no overweight Penan living in the longhouse (although there
are quite a few adipose Iban and Dusun in Sukang Sub-district).
Personal adornment consists of watches (for adults who can afford one) and
modern style tattoos, earrings, and rings, for both boys and girls. No Penan
Sukang now uses jong (on the arms) or selungan (on the legs), both being
traditional Penan bracelets made from rattan, and Penan children laugh at the
very idea of wearing these.
Every household has a radio, but there is only one television in the Penan
longhouse; I have never seen this in working order. No Penan living in Sukang
has a car (unlike many of the Dusun and Iban who leave their cars parked
downriver, either at Bukit Sawat or, more likely, at Pengkalan Mau). In fact, the
Penan in Sukang tend to have few permanent possessions, clothes being the most
obvious of these, although not many are in fine condition. Those possessions
most valued are either functional and traditional (i.e., blowpipes and machetes)
or modern (radios, outboard engines, boats, watches, and shop-bought jewellery).
Their limited possessions, many of which are easily portable, are seen piled in
one place, in most family compartments. While the Penan no longer participate
in any form of migration, they have the appearance of being ready for movement
at any time.
Boats
The Penan in Sukang have become competent boatmen and boat makers since
settling. Each Penan family owns a longboat and an outboard engine. This is an
essential form of transport for access to shops and offices downriver, as well as
for fishing and quick and easy movement to areas along the Belait River and its
tributaries, which are known for fruit trees liked by game animals (so long as the
outboard engines on their boats are functioning), and for transporting timber
for blowpipe and boat construction or for longhouse maintenance. All these are
home-made boats, and the wood, used in their construction, is obtained with
their own chainsaws. However, most of the Penan boats and engines are in tatty
241
condition and poorly maintained, compared to those owned by the Dusun and
Iban.
Crafts: Blowpipes, Baskets, and Mats

Traditionally, Penan have been known as outstanding craftsmen, producing
exquisite rattan mats and baskets, and blowpipes. Penan women in Sukang still
demonstrate these skills in the production of mats and bags, as do males for
blowpipes, but these artefacts are only for personal use, since there is no longer
a ready commercial market for the sale of these products. There could be outlets
for crafts through shops in Brunei’s coastal towns, but shopkeepers can and do
acquire similar goods from neighbouring Sarawak at much cheaper prices, due
to the present currency exchange rates.
Longhouse
The Penan longhouse is spartan in its appearance and poorly maintained in
comparison to the neighbouring Dusun and Iban longhouses – the insides of which
are varnished or painted, decorated with photographs, traditional hats, and Dayak-
style oil-painted designs, and are kept spotlessly clean. The Penan longhouse has some
pictures of Malaysian pop stars taken from newspapers and pinned to walls, but it is
otherwise bare wooden boards, as an Eastern Penan home would normally be. There
is no longhouse generator, but three families have their own small generators, which
they turn on just for electric light, some evenings of the week.
Unhealthy and mangy dogs roam along the longhouse veranda, the floor
boards of which are worn and holed in places. The front stairs leading to the
ground from the centre of the longhouse’s front veranda have collapsed, and
rubbish is widely strewn on the ground below. A number of small wild animals
and birds (such as young squirrels and hornbill birds) can be seen occasionally in
the longhouse, in home-made cages of wire or thin bamboo, caught and kept (a
common Penan practice) when their parents were killed for food (on pets, see
Seitz in this volume).
Apart from the longhouse, each family has a farm hut, and Luyah (the Penan
elder) has a house across river on the right bank, and some Penan move to their
farm huts during periods of planting and harvesting.
Health and Rituals

Some consideration of this topic among Penan in Sukang was undertaken by
Voeks and Sercombe (2000), who ‘examined the cosmology and ethnomedical
242
beliefs of the Penan’ (ibid.: 679). Their research concluded that the Penan in
Sukang ‘maintain a medical system that is limited in scope and detail compared
to neighbouring swidden rice cultivators’ (ibid.).
For sickness, the Penan have, to a large extent, abandoned traditional methods
in favour of a service offered by the government-provided village clinic, where
modern medicines can be obtained (see Voeks and Sercombe 2000), although
most adult Penan in Sukang continue to perceive that sources of illness have a
basis in what Metcalf (1991: 292) describes as ‘soul loss and the infraction of
primordial taboo’ (also see Voeks and Sercombe 2000). Even so, most members
of the group enjoy reasonable, consistently good health at the present time, as
they did when McLoughlin (1976) undertook his morphological study in the
late 1970s.
Recreation
Penan engage in a number of mostly cooperative pastimes. After school or during
holidays, children of school age and of both sexes frequently play in the Belait
River and fish by rod from the riverbank. When the weather is wet and cool,
children gaze across the river, play tag, or engage in other group games on the
Penan longhouse veranda. Teenage girls help their mothers by washing clothes
in the river, while also swimming. Older boys (but not girls) play sepak takraw
(a ball game using a rattan ball) in front of the longhouse, in the afternoons.
Almost never do members of other groups such as Dusun, who live nearby, join
in these activities with the Penan in the river. Occasionally, however, Penan play
football with Dusun and school teachers in Sukang on the small playing field
beside the primary school, during late afternoons. The Dusun are reasonably
fit and skilled, and normally team up with outside teachers, who wish to play.
Teams are often divided along ethnic grounds, with the Penan comprising one
team. None of the aforementioned are really a match for the Penan, who are
leaner, fitter, and much more skilled, although they are invariably both bareback
and barefoot, or an individual may be wearing just one football boot. The Penan
are teased mercilessly by outside teachers, who wear both boots and football
strip, but they always lose games to the Penan and seem to resent it.
Pudarno Binchin (1991) described five games played by the Penan of Sukang
for entertainment, as practice for developing strength and hunting and gathering
skills, but I never observed them, and Penan said they no longer engage in these.18
I have never witnessed singing, dancing, or the use of traditional Penan
instruments, such as the pagang, keloré or oréng (used by Penan elsewhere), which
are not owned or used at all by Penan in Sukang, although none of these has ever
243
had any ritual value for Penan (R. Needham, pers. comm.). While many of the
adult Penan know traditional stories, none of these seems to be told nowadays.
Penan seem indifferent to these aspects of their traditions, although by no means
opposed to them. For those adult Penan who have a functioning radio, programmes
in Iban, broadcast from Limbang, are listened to regularly. Programmes in Malay,
especially popular music programmes, are also heard, often at high volume, such
that broadcasts carry well beyond the longhouse.
It has become increasingly common for the few older adolescent Penan boys
who have left school to hang around their longhouse smoking (if they have
cigarettes), play sepak takraw, or sit around on the veranda of the longhouse. It is
also common for them not to accompany their families to their rice farms. They
are not reprimanded for not going to rice farms to help their parents, although
their help is often needed.
Alcohol Consumption
For Iban, drinking rice wine (tuak) remains part of gawai (festival) tradition,
and they have official, if unwritten, permission to produce tuak for important
cultural events, such as the annual harvest festival, as it is otherwise illegal to
produce alcohol in Brunei, for consumption or sale.
Traditionally, Needham (in this volume) maintained, Penan did not drink
alcohol at all, for fear of becoming mavuk (‘dizzy’) and losing control, since being
composed and in control of oneself is generally very important for a Penan.
Certainly Eastern Penan have never been known to drink for any ritual purposes,
because they have very few rituals and these are not obligatorily observed anyway.
Even so, two Penan maintain that their parents and grandparents made wine from
wild fruit as hunter-gatherers when they lived in ulu Belait, and a number of adult
Penan (women included) unashamedly enjoy alcohol, which lowers their status in
the eyes of their neighbours (especially when they become all noisy if they drink
during the daytime and can be heard from the village school, across river).
Nowadays, Penan do not make rice or fruit wine but occasionally buy it from Iban
(at B$ 5 a bottle), as well as illicit rice spirit (arak) from shops downriver. There is
one Penan who has a reputation as a regular consumer of alcohol (kaki-botol) and
who has never married (a marked occurrence among Penan), one reason being, it
is said, because of his drinking habits.
Names and Naming

One clear example of cultural realignment among the Penan, over the last
25 years or so, has been the increasing use of Iban and Malay personal names.
244
Traditionally, there are three types of Eastern Penan names: ngaran usah, an
‘autonym’, a given personal name; a teknonym, a kinship name, particularly
for parents (tamen, ‘father’, or tinen, ‘mother’, followed by the name of the
eldest child); and ngaran lumo’, a necronym or death name, designating one’s
relationship to the immediate kin member most recently deceased. Among the
Eastern Penan necronyms listed by Needham (1965), comprising an extensive
list, only uyau (‘deceased father’) and ilun (‘deceased uncle/aunt’) are still known
among Penan Sukang, and then only by those above 30 years of age. There
is also the less well-known form ngaran ai, ‘friendship name’, first recorded
among the Penan in Long Buang in Sarawak by Needham (1971: 206), and
given to another by a close friend in memory of a shared experience. Penan
Sukang report never having used ngaran ai, although they are aware of its use
by other Penan, such as those in Long Buang, in Sarawak (where their nearest
relatives reside).
Nowadays, Penan in Sukang use only given names (both in reference and address
to those of similar age), and these have shifted, to a small extent, from Penan-type
names used previously. Only Penan-type names for the group’s total of 36
were recorded by McLoughlin (1976), while the percentage can be seen now to
include 25 per cent indubitably Malay-like names (e.g., Sufian, Ahmad, Maslina,
and Siti Marinah), and this does not take into account names that Penan are
required to adopt once they become Muslim. While new Muslim names are adopted
as a mark of conversion, Penan continue to use their (previous) given names as
address forms and in reference to others, in day-to-day interaction. Needham (1954d
and 1965) argued that the erosion of the Penan system of death names, otherwise an
important aspect of group solidarity, was tantamount to the loss of Penan identity,
and suggested a correlation between decline of necronym usage and assimilation to
coastal society with the loss of their autochthonous values system (an issue that is
discussed below).
Beliefs
Chatwin (1989: 220) made the observation that ‘[n]omads are notoriously
irreligious. They show little interest in ceremonial or protestations of faith.
For the migration is itself a ritual performance a religious catharsis’. A further
significant explanation of nomads’ tendencies not to be formally religious is
that ‘[r]eligious beliefs support stratification […] a binary distinction between
high and low’ (Rousseau 1990: 184), and hence these are generally incompatible
with the egalitarian nature of nomads and open social groups (see Saville-Troike
1989: 41). As Rousseau (1990: 221) also observed with regard to swiddeners
245
in Borneo, belief in omens can prevent movement, depending on the sign

observed. This, however, would never have been practical for hunter-gatherers,
as submission or even subscription to the power of omens has really been and
remains a matter of personal preference, rather than obligation.
Certainly, until Western missionaries first arrived in Borneo, Penan (and
Punan), like their settled neighbours in the interior of Borneo, were animists (if
not fervent in their adherence to beliefs), and elements occurring in the
surrounding natural environment were considered imbued with spirits, although
Penan have generally been more relaxed in their beliefs. A further relevant factor
is that Penan have never been headhunters, and so their beliefs and lifestyles are
without any of the trappings of other Bornean peoples for whom headhunting
was important with respect to their beliefs (see Needham 1953: 46), and this
remains the case.
Hose and McDougall (1912, II: 186) were uncertain as to whether Punans
(sic) had adopted ‘their religious and superstitious notions from the settled tribes
of the same region’, or ‘whether […] the Punans represent in this and other
respects the perpetuation (perhaps with some degeneration or impoverishment)
of a more primitive culture once common to the ancestors of all, or the greater
part of the tribes of Borneo’.
Needham (in this volume) argued similarly that ‘[t]he major characteristics of
the indigenous religion of the Penan are in general, and in a somewhat
impoverished form, those of the Kenyah religion as described by Elshout (1923
and 1926)’. Brosius (1988a: 91), in fact, suggested that the salient features of
Penan and Punan religion included ‘omenology, thunder, animal mockery, food-
mixing, rich and poetic figurative vocabulary, supernatural world, concealment
of human activities from malevolent spirits’.
The issue of religious and other kinds of beliefs is a potentially complex one,
and a full treatment is beyond the scope of this chapter. What is certain, however,
is that the few practices that can be associated with traditional beliefs held by
Penan Sukang have become mostly moribund since they have settled. Animistic
convictions are still held but in a typically flexible Penan way (for further details,
see Voeks and Sercombe 2000).
Interestingly, Eastern Penan have no word for religion, and considerations of
formal religion, for them, mostly concern certain non-obligatory rituals (Voeks
and Sercombe 2000; also see Metcalf 1991), reflecting their rather minimalistic
attitudes towards beliefs. Only Luyah, the community elder, makes use of
traditional invocations, although, he freely admits, he is not rigorous in his use
of these.19
246
Among Penan Sukang, institutionalised religious beliefs are held only by

those who have become Muslim. Four Penan couples in Sukang have embraced
Islam, along with their children who are 12 years of age or above, but none has
shown punctiliousness in carrying out the ritual requirements of their newly
adopted faith (see Rousseau 1990: 74).20
ECONOMICS
The economics of the Penan community in Sukang are perceived here as the
various ways in which members of the group interact with their environment to
create and sustain production for individual families and the community. Prior
to settling, the Penan were full-time hunters and gatherers who hunted wild boar
(among other wild fauna) and processed sago as the basis of their subsistence.21
The Penan also conducted barter trade for certain items that the rainforest could
not provide, and they came to Sukang village prior to 1962, when they had
moved into the area around the headwaters of the Belait River, to trade rubber
for salt and tobacco with the Dusun.22
Nowadays, the Penan Sukang are not wealthy in material possessions, relative
to their immediate neighbours or coastal urban dwellers in Brunei. However,
they are certainly considerably better off than most of the Eastern Penan in the
interior of Sarawak (Sercombe 1996b).
The Penan household is the unit of production and consumption in Sukang
(see Rousseau 1990). As in many rural (mostly subsistence) communities, men
farm, fish with nets that they set, and trap game, while women cook (with wood
they collect), clean, and gather wild fruits and vegetables. Both men and women
work during periods of planting and harvesting, when families stay for several
days at their farm huts, although Penan women do less planting work than males
and less than either Dusun or Iban women.
The Penan diet consists mainly of rice, noodles (which are shop-bought), fish
(which are caught by net), meat (or game, mostly caught in traps), wild fruits, a
fairly minimal vegetable intake, and some tinned food (such as sardines or pork
pieces, bought from shops in the small settlement of Bukit Sawat, downriver).23
Vegetables comprise mainly ferns and cassava leaves gathered near the longhouse;
these are not so much planted as grown incipiently, although some vegetables are
intercropped with hill rice. Crisps and sweets are also bought from the village
shop as snack foods, mainly by children.
In general terms, the Penan in Sukang have the following basic means of
production.
247
Farming
Perhaps the most noteworthy contemporary feature of Penan Sukang economics
is their basic means of production. This has shifted from sago processing to
planting and harvesting rice, since they settled. Nowadays, if Penan wish to
consume sago, they buy it as flour or pellets from the Sukang village shop or
downriver.
Every family has a plot of land across the river from the longhouse, where they
cultivate hill rice, the planting and harvesting of which is carried out on a
cooperative basis among members of the Penan community. Sufficient rice is
normally grown to support each family’s basic needs for one year, although there
have been cases where rice has been insufficient. No wet rice is planted, as is also
the case among the Dusun and Iban throughout Sukang Sub-district, and all
cultivation takes place to the right side of the Belait River, by government order.24
The Penan did, at one time, keep chickens, but they all died. The Penan in
Sukang have no other domesticated animals that they rear for consumption,
although they do keep dogs (for occasional hunting forays) and other wild
animals (for a further discussion of this issue, see Seitz in this volume).25
Local Sources of Cash Income

Six Penan men (and one Iban, the school groundsman, but no Dusun) are
labourers in Sukang Village for the Belait District office, which pays a standard
local rate for unskilled labour (in Brunei) of B$ 20 a day. The work of the Penan
involves keeping the village and sub-district paths clear of overgrowth, between
Sukang and Biadong Ulu (an Iban village about an hour east of Sukang on foot),
and between Sukang and Dungun (an Iban village about ten minutes south, or
upriver, from Sukang). One Penan male also works as an assistant in the local
medical clinic, the only Penan from Sukang to have progressed beyond primary
school education. Another kind of work, which is occasional, involves manual
labour for the Dusun (mostly clearing old-growth forest for rice planting),
although Penan do not have symbiotic transactional relationships with the local
Dusun, as they did in the past.
Families who have converted to Islam and have no other cash income receive
financial credit from the religious propagation centre. No Penan women in
Sukang have wage work of any kind. Two Penan men have also worked as
consultants for the Biology and Geography departments of Brunei’s national
university and the Brunei forestry department, identifying types and functions
of certain flora. I have also paid Penan for translation work, but this has been
248
irregular. An important point that emerges from knowing the Penan in Sukang,
over a period spanning nearly a decade, is that cash seems to be spent quickly,
and there appears little conservation of the perishable or disposable resources
that they acquire, apart from rice and the rainforest around them.26
Non-local Sources of Income

No Penan who is an ongoing Sukang longhouse resident works outside Sukang
Sub-district. One family man did, in the past, work away from home, in the oil
industry on the coast, but only for six months. The one single and middle-aged
male occasionally works away from the village but is never away for periods of
more than two weeks. Unlike many of the younger generation Iban and Dusun,
younger Penan do not seem oriented towards the world beyond the village, for
employment or other reasons (see Kershaw 1994: 183).
Fishing
The Belait River, next to which the Penan live, remains relatively free of pollution
and provides a good source of fish, even though fish were not traditionally an
important or preferred source of protein nutrition for Penan. They use casting nets,
as well as fixing nets (which they buy) at suitable spots along the river during low
water periods, sharing river space with the Iban and Dusun. Fish almost certainly
provide the most consistent and easily sought source of protein for the Penan
in Sukang, since fishing requires relatively little investment of time or money,
although, as with other Penan tools, their fishing nets are often in poor repair.
Hunting
Nowadays, hunting takes place only during daylight hours at weekends, because
adults have to be at home to collect children from school each day, they say, and
men also state that they do not want to be away overnight, or to travel far on
foot, as they become muhau, ‘exhausted’. This is in dramatic contrast to pre-
settlement days, when hunting constituted a regular economic activity for men,
involving a day, or days and nights, away from a camp to hunt wild game. At
the present time, animal traps are laid but not on a regular or systematic basis,
although there is an increase of both trap laying and weekend hunting during
fruit seasons, mainly to catch wild boar, the preferred meat (as for many other
upriver non-Muslims).27
One evolving consequence of the reduction in hunting is that Penan boys no
longer seem to automatically acquire hunting skills in the same ways as their
249
fathers did. Penan boys who attend school have less experience of the rainforest,
as an exploitable resource for food, than their parents (see Janowski 1996: 57),
and associate less with the forest. This can be seen from both their reduced
knowledge of and interest in the rainforest around them. Few now hunt or seek
game as a spare time or recreational activity. Instead, they play sports in the
village.28
Gathering
Sago processing diminished over a period extending from the time when Penan
farms became fully productive, in the mid-1960s, to the time when adult males
acquired wage work in Sukang, in the 1980s. Two preferred species of wild sago
palm (uvud and balau), however, are available in Sukang Sub-district.
The Penan are not overly partial to the consumption of vegetables (although
they do consume them) but sweet fruits are enjoyed as snack food. These are
collected but not cultivated in orchards, although stands of bananas occur around
Penan farm huts, a form of incipient agriculture. As mentioned above, different
ferns are gathered, as are bamboo shoots and tapioca roots and leaves. The latter,
as foodstuffs, are looked down upon by other residents of Sukang.29 Penan also
gather good-quality wood for blowpipes from the Sungai Ingai area (about 40
minutes upriver by boat from Sukang), but this is on a very small scale, since
their need for new blowpipes is limited.
While Penan Sukang still believe in the idea of molong, a conservation strategy
that prevents overexploitation of essential rainforest resources (see Langub 1989
for a more detailed description and discussion), it is no longer a relevant concept
for the Penan Sukang, who have come to rely on wage income, cultivation, and
the use of boats to satisfy their economic requirements. However, while the
Penan may have undergone a number of subsistence-style changes, they maintain
that the rainforest is still important to them (see Langub 1996a: 119), as a home
with which they associate closely, and as an exploitable resource.
Trade
Trade has been claimed as a defining feature of nomad–swiddener relations (see
Hoffmann 1986), although this remains only a hypothesis. If it ever was the case,
it is no longer of any significance to the Penan in Sukang. Originally, Penan trade
in forest produce in Brunei was really only with the Dusun (a stratified group)
and not with the Iban (an institutionally unstratified group).30 Nowadays, Penan
Sukang do not trade with either Iban or Dusun, because the Penan have nothing
that the latter want, except their labour, which the Penan sell or trade sparingly.
250
For example, few Dusun or Iban, except elders, want bezoar stones (taken from
a monkey’s gall bladder).
Penan continue to make blowpipes for their own use, but only rarely are they
able to sell or trade them with others, such as Iban. Spearheads, to attach to the
ends of blowpipes, are obtained from Iban, who forge and subsequently sell them
to the Penan for B$ 70 each, which is expensive, given they can be bought for
about B$ 6 a piece in neighbouring Sarawak. Besides blowpipes, demand is
negligible for mats and bags, which are finely crafted by Penan women but
produced in sufficient quantities by Dusun and Iban to satisfy their own needs
and wants. In addition, access to larger centres of trade in towns is currently
relatively limited for the Penan. Moreover, the Brunei dollar currently has a
comparatively high regional value, against, say, the Malaysian ringgit, and similar
crafts, made by Penan in Sarawak, can be bought at much lower prices in the
neighbouring towns of Limbang or Miri, in Sarawak.
A final remark here is that it seems that presently the only realistically viable
way for the Penan to raise their standard of living is for their offspring to succeed
educationally, allowing them a choice of work options among which would be
skilled employment, either locally or, more viably, elsewhere in Brunei. To do
this, they would need to be downriver to gain access to education beyond primary
school, whether at secondary level, vocational school or, possibly even, in higher
education (see Nagata 1979 for an incisive discussion of social mobility via
education in Malaysia).
PATTERNS OF LANGUAGE USE

The issue of language use spans social, cultural, and economic dimensions of
Penan lives, and it is considered highly significant as an index of both facets of
continuity and adaptation and has been a subject of some discussion elsewhere
(e.g., Sercombe 1996a and 1998).
The most significant factor in bringing about the present state of
multilingualism among the Penan in Sukang has been the act of adopting a
sedentary existence, which has brought with it ongoing contact with Dusun and
Iban neighbours as well as with the local outposts of Brunei national institutions,
which have resulted, virtually by default, in an expansion of Penan linguistic
repertoires. Obvious potential sources of influence on Penan include Dusun,
Iban, Malay, and English, the languages that occur in Sukang Sub-district (the
latter two languages being taught as subjects as well as being the media of instruction
in Sukang Village school). The linguistic influences on Penan were noted as being
251
overwhelmingly from Malay and Iban, and this is despite relatively little contact
with first-language speakers of Malay, since living in Brunei at least.
In addition, the contexts of use for Penan have been reduced. Penan remains
a means of identifying the community in Sukang, but formal education, in
Malay and English, appears to have partially usurped some of the informal
educational roles of Penan. Certain domains of use for Penan were reduced as
soon as the Penan settled in Sukang, particularly for children who began school
and were exposed to formal education in Malay and English media. Interethnic
contact among adults continued to be conducted in a superordinate code (Malay),
just as it had been when the Penan were hunter-gatherers, but this contact would
have increased considerably once Penan had settled, and would have given rise to
group-wide acquisition of Iban, which had also become the sub-district’s lingua
franca by the 1960s.
The Penan in Sukang are overtly positive about both their own language and
Iban (as the local lingua franca and the first language of the majority of the
inhabitants of the sub-district). At the same time, they certainly do not appear
negative towards other codes and ethnic groups with whom they come into
contact, either regularly or sporadically.
It has not been possible to either observe or record (and thus analyse) the
language knowledge and use of every member of the Penan group in Sukang, so
the statements made below are not necessarily generalisable to every member of
the Penan community. As mentioned, Penan are very positive towards Iban, the
language that they view as the source of most of the code switchings and
borrowings, of which they are aware, in daily language use. The degree to which
the occurrence of non-Penan features can be seen as marked can be judged by the
extent to which Penan themselves have perceived certain language features that
they use as Penan or not, and whether or not it was possible for them to provide
Penan equivalents for language items not perceived as traditionally Penan (for
details, see Sercombe 2001).
I conducted certain tests with Penan children, to whom I was able to gain
access in the primary school, which revealed some surprising results. Firstly, a
number of Penan primary level children were found to be able to read and write
in Penan with relative ease, despite having never before been exposed to printed
matter in their own language. However, their general levels of Penan cultural
and linguistic knowledge appear somewhat attenuated in contrast to adults’
levels of knowledge and not just because of age differences. At the same time, all
Penan primary level children with whom I came into contact were print-literate,
which is not the case for Penan adults, among whom I found only three who
252
were able to read printed text. Up until the present time, few Penan have been
able to exploit their text literacy in ways that might benefit them as individuals
or the group. If and when an opportunity to do so arises, this is most likely to be
outside Sukang Sub-district, and the already limited domains of use for Penan
language may be further reduced.
A number of factors suggest that Penan is an endangered language in Brunei
– notwithstanding Krauss’ (1992) suggestion that any language with fewer than
10,000 speakers is likely to be at risk. These include the small number of Penan
speakers, the limited number of domains in which Penan is used, the low status
of Penan, and the limited amount of institutional support that Penan receives,
although, in the long run, it is unlikely that language maintenance will be
achieved through institutional support alone (see Edwards 1984).
The persistence of the Penan language in Brunei can be accounted for largely
by factors related to both the physical and social environments inhabited by
Penan speakers:
1. the relative rural isolation of Sukang, with only the Belait River as a
practical means of access to other areas, limits the potential effects of state
institutions.
2. the minimal and peripatetic presence of ‘outsiders’ minimises the effects of
exposure to many of the norms and values of coastal dwellers.
3. physical and social separation between the Penan and others, within the
village context, are significant factors in the continued use of Penan within
the Penan longhouse community.
4. penan, by dint of their rural circumstances, have far more chance of main-
taining their language, where the current opportunities and needs for group
cohesion are increased, than if they lived in urban circumstances (where the
possibilities for wider social contacts would be far greater).
5. economically, the Penan continue to be independent, even if materially
poor.
6. penan is still the primary language of socialisation among the group.
7. most Penan males in Sukang continue to use their language because
their social networks remain very much rooted in the Penan community.
It continues to be more advantageous to cooperate with or assist a group
member than someone outside the group. Penan essentially maintain the
same socio-political system as when they were hunter-gatherers. This is
reflected in the ongoing primordiality and predominant Penan ethnicity
of the group. As Gumperz (1968: 386) has suggested, ‘separate languages
maintain themselves most readily in closed tribal systems, in which kinship
dominates all activities’.
8. a lack of success among Penan at school, due to a number of reasons – includ-
ing a lack of fit between Penan culture and the values and beliefs practised
253
in the village primary school – is perceived and occasionally referred to by

teachers in the school and has an isolating effect, ensuring greater levels of
Penan intra-group dependency.
9. telephone contact with relatives in Sarawak allows access to societal
supports for Penan, one of which is continued use of Penan, although
features of both Iban and Malay have begun to occur in inter-Penan-
community discourse.
Among the factors that appear to be highly salient in language change is
penetration of a language group by speakers of other languages. Another is
colonisation, from which stems the creation of a hierarchy of languages of
differential status by which previously non-existent concepts such as ‘minority
language’ emerge (see Mühlhäusler 1989). As Williams (1991: 4) has suggested,
‘[l]anguages in contact are often languages in competition, and the ecology of
language has much to do with questions of power, of control over resources,
people and land, and the granting or abrogating of social rights throughout
history’. It is felt that the social forces referred to by Williams are present to only
a limited degree in Sukang Sub-district.
For the Penan language to either die out and/or for Penan to make a total
shift to either Iban or Malay (the only other languages to which they presently
have any significant degree of exposure), a number of conditions would have to
arise, which are not presently in place. The social factors listed below would not
necessarily be evenly distributed in terms of the influence they exerted upon the
Penan community (see Weinreich et al. 1968):
1. easier access to urban coastal districts of Brunei (via roads), where the
homogenising effects of large-scale institutional forces would be felt more
greatly.
2. greater Penan participation in national social institutions to which they
presently have only limited access.
3. greater exposure to both the national and international media.
4. greater participation in work that permits regular social interaction with
speakers of Iban and/or Malay, as well as of other languages.
5. the Penan have so far placed little stress on individual achievement, with a
consequential lack of socio-economic mobility among the group. Greater
academic attainment among Penan children would ultimately allow for
further economic opportunities.
6. penan would need to move to other locations for purposes of marriage (par-
ticularly exogamy or hypergamy, a particularly powerful factor in language
shift, this remaining relatively unlikely at the present), work, or further
education. Educational achievement would quite likely also have an effect
on their chances of marrying out of the group. (The only Penan to have
progressed beyond the primary level education has married a Bisaya’ from
254
the Limbang District in neighbouring Sarawak, and presently has the most
prestigious job among the Penan living in Sukang, as an assistant in the
village medical clinic.)
7. if the Penan community is not replenished by more Penan in the form
of immigrants or more children, then assimilation may take place if the
group diminishes to a point where it may no longer be viable as a discrete
community.
8. the lack of Penan in written form reduces the chances of its continuity.
9. in the continued absence of other Penan, those in Sukang are more likely
to look towards their Iban neighbours for greater social contact and closer
affiliation, as described earlier.
10. further conversion to Islam among members of the Penan community might
encourage greater use of Malay (in the same way that it has among Dusun,
but not among Iban in the neighbouring upriver sub-district or mukim of
Melilas).
11. ultimately, language shift and death are caused by a shift in values (personal
and group), and this shift has yet to happen in a way that has caused erosion
of Penan to the point of its demise.
It currently appears that the Penan community continues to comprise, to a large
degree, a distinct linguistic entity maintaining a distinct code, albeit influenced by
surrounding languages.
CONCLUSIONS: SOURCES AND PROCESSES OF SOCIAL

CHANGE AMONG THE PENAN IN SUKANG
This chapter has tried to outline a number of significant aspects of the current
circumstances of the Penan in Sukang and, in so doing, elicit elements of
continuity, as well as examples of transformation that they have undergone in
the period since they settled in Brunei. This, of course, omits to take account of
the possible social and cultural shifts that took place while the Penan were still
hunter-gatherers in southern Brunei and northern Sarawak.
Social change is an ongoing universal phenomenon although it varies,
quantitatively and qualitatively, according to context. Rates of social change
typically increase as technology within a society advances, and material change
is generally more rapid than non-material change. Generally speaking, sources of
social change can be accounted for largely through the following: cultural
processes, such as inventions and discoveries; diffusion via the spread of cultural
elements and contact between societies through trade, immigration and mass
communication. There remain very few contemporary hunting and gathering
societies that are characterised by patterns of life little changed over the centuries.
255
The Penan in Sukang are an example of a community that has undergone a

fundamental shift regarding patterns of subsistence (like the majority of Eastern
Penan in Sarawak, from the nineteenth century right up to the present day).
Social change is also driven by economic change often with an implicit
assumption of improved economic status. Unfortunately, there appears, in the
main, little evidence of overall economic progress for most Eastern Penan, since
settling. They now farm rice, but no longer process sago, and all are still tied to
the land (see Jawan 1994, regarding the same kinds of economic constraints on
Iban in Sarawak), not that they would necessarily choose other occupations,
given the choice. At the present time, however, Penan remain a true minority
group in terms of their numbers, status, and socio-economics (see Mougeon and
Beniak 1991: 1)
A number of processes have led to both shifts in procedural knowledge and
reductions in the cultural inventory of the Penan Sukang (see Brosius 1992a: 75,
on the effects of settlement on Penan). These include new methods of transport
(along rivers by boat, rather than by foot along paths); new kinds of labour (wage
work); changes in spatial orientation (from expanses of primary rainforest
towards a more discrete permanently located community); the acquisition of new
skills (e.g., farming and boat making), and a decline in traditional skills; this is
concomitant with an overall reduced, but not inevitable, exploitation
of the rainforest as a resource and as a marker of social identity, from an
etic perspective at least.31 While Penan have given up elements of their culture
(e.g., the practice of certain beliefs, their complex of naming systems), they do
not appear to have adopted rituals and practices from settled groups, such as the
Dusun harvest festival (temarok) or the Iban gawai festival, although some have
become Muslims but not primarily from religious motives.
Apart from settlement (in 1962), significant transformations among the Penan
include the following: locational proximity to a community of Dusun; proximity
to and influence by Iban; cultural influence at areal level (by Iban) and at national
level by a Malay-dominated society (including conversion to Islam); exposure to
formal bilingual education; limited access to wage jobs; long-term separation
from other Penan; the transition to a new basic means of subsistence; a decrease
in hunting; the emergence of fishing as a significant economic activity; an
increased use of alcohol; official Bruneian status; and institutionalisation of the
Penan elder’s role and social status within the larger community of the sub-
district.32 At the same time, it can be observed, particularly from the section on
social features above, that the Eastern Penan in Sukang have not yet undergone an
ideological shift away from the egalitarianism of Eastern Penan hunter-gatherers,
256
nor have they acquired economic wealth and social status through ‘any’ means (see
Gurenther 1968: 131–132). Conversion to Islam has brought with it material
benefits, but it has only slightly offset the relative material poverty among some
Penan families, who had almost no other regular sources of cash income.
Physical isolation decreases chances of dramatic change. The rural and
relatively inaccessible context of Sukang is conducive to the conservation and
maintenance of village life, with its limited scope for social and physical change,
unless imposed or heavily influenced from outside.33
Future changes for the Penan can only be guessed at (see Sercombe 1996a
and 1996b), and it would be imprudent to speculate how the Penan in Brunei
will continue to evolve as a discrete community, if indeed they remain that.
Turnbull (1983: 7) has suggested that,
[w]hen a culture persists with little apparent change, as that of the Mbuti seems
to have done over a period of many thousands of years, it is not because of a
preoccupation with the past, with the maintenance of ‘tradition,’ nor even
because of a conscious readiness and ability to adapt to the present. Rather, it
may be because the people, and the culture, are oriented toward what we would
call the future rather than the past, or because both the future and the past are
considered by them as relatively insignificant extensions of the ever-changing
present.34
It is the conclusion here that it is no longer the case that ‘nomadism is the
essence of being a Penan’ (Needham 1953: 156). It is not necessarily the case that
Penan, depending on ‘length of settlement […] exhibit progressive changes in
social organisation and culture compared with traditional groups’ (Needham
1965: 60). The place of settlement is also relevant. Needham’s observations were
among Penan on the coast of Sarawak, and residence in coastal areas of Borneo
has frequently been shown to be a significant factor in social and cultural
realignment. Neither is it the case that the loss of the death-name system is a
direct reflection of assimilation to coastal culture (see Needham 1965: 69). While
this may suggest social mutation, it does not demonstrate it, and the loss of death
names (necronyms) may be interpreted as a symptom that does not, in fact,
reveal the real extent of social change, in the same way that it need not reflect the
extent of social continuity among this group.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The author wishes to thank Kelly Donovan for drawing the map that
accompanies this chapter.
257
NOTES
1. Urquhart (1958: 206) had earlier suggested that the term ‘Pennan’ (sic) derives from
‘[M]ennan […] a word from a number of Kenyah dialects meaning “to stay in the
jungle” […] for two or three years and during that time not to plant crops’.
2. This seems (but may not be) ironic, since one reason given for the arrival of Iban
in upriver parts of Brunei is that they were fleeing the Japanese occupation of
Sarawak.
3. Leake (1990: 104) also suggests that ‘some Bisaya’ leaders […] in turn “owned”
groups of nomadic Penans for trading purposes. As the Penans wandered the deep
rugged interior clad in bark loincloths, they would collect jungle produce such as
hornbill feathers and bezoar stones to trade for iron knife blades and tobacco’.
4. According to R. Needham, the Penan Pelutan migrated between 1765 and 1790
further north, to the middle Baram (pers. comm).
5. Needham (1954d: 429) stated that ‘Penan in general have short memories for
genealogies and concern themselves hardly at all with the past [...] Penan are
concerned to remember and locate as fully as possible the living members of their
tribe and people but they do not occupy themselves with the past’, a statement with
which I would agree.
6. Needham (1953: 218) stated that ‘Penan trace kinship ambilaterally’.
7. See Sercombe (1999), regarding Iban and the changing status of longhouse chiefs
since they have begun receiving salaries for their positions; see also Needham (1965),
regarding the emergence of contractual relationships resulting from settlement and
contact with official hierarchical institutions, and the contrast to pre-sedentary
Penan social life; also, see Steward (1972).
8. An atui has been set up in the Brunei National Museum of Technology as an example
of Penan culture. See Langub (1989: 179) for further details of atui use among
Penan. Barnes (1958: 639–645) also provides descriptions of Penan cemeteries on
the Niah River.
9. Rousseau (1990: 227) cites Langub’s observation that about ten per cent of Penan
marriages are with non-Penan, and this is about the same for the Penan Sukang.
Nagata (1979: 246) suggests, in relation to interethnic marriage in Malaysia, that
‘[t]he low rate of ethnic intermarriage is in no small part the result of cultural and
structural incompatibility’, which would apply to the Penan in relation to other ethnic
groups, to some extent, particularly those with strong institutions of stratification.
10. R. Needham (pers. comm.) said that he had only ever seen one Penan not married,
and this man was both ugly and weak, which is not the case with Udhi, although he
is a heavy drinker, if given the opportunity.
11. The only exception that I have encountered in Sarawak was in the Eastern Penan
village of Pa’ Tik, to the south of the Kuba’an River, where some Penan remain semi-
nomadic.
12. There is a telephone located in the Dusun longhouse, and people pay to phone
out of the district – B$ 1 for three minutes, when it works. Penan always feel very
258
uncomfortable approaching the Dusun to make use of this facility, even though it is
provided by the government. Now there is also a telephone in the Penan longhouse,
but calls can only be received, not made.
13. One way to tease an unmarried Dusun or Iban adult male is to suggest that he
obtains a Penan bride. In Biadong Ulu, there is a consensus among Iban that the
Penan are lazy and chaotic in their daily lives. However, a Penan male is married
to an Iban woman from Biadong and they live with her brother next to the path
between Sukang and Biadong.
14. See Janowski’s (1996) view that the Kelabit, in Sarawak, perceive Eastern Penan as
children, although this has been challenged by Bala (2002).
15. This coincided with some Penan saying that they had made tuak from fruit when
they had been hunter-gatherers.
16. In conjunction, however, a number of Iban – about 50 per cent – in the adjacent
mukim of Melilas (which has only one longhouse with a population of just over 100)
have converted to Islam, as have some Dusun in Sukang.
17. Penan in Sarawak have increasingly abandoned loincloths and traditional haircuts.
18. In the Penan village of Pa’ Tik, on the Magoh River (between one and two days’ walk
from Bario) in northeastern Sarawak, I witnessed performances satirising loggers
and government officials through mime and role-play. I have also witnessed, in Long
Buang, sayau (Penan ‘dance’), loosely based on the elegant dances of other groups
but, in the case of Penan, it is mostly performed as a vigorous bottom-wiggle, the
more vigorous the better, in a deliberate parody of refined longhouse-style dances.
19. Nowadays, following both missionary influence and that of settled peoples with
whom the Penan come into regular contact, the majority of Penan in Sarawak have
become evangelical Christians; and some openly disdain traditional Penan beliefs
(see Sercombe 1996b).
20. Brunei’s Borneo Bulletin (2000: 22) occasionally makes reference to the number
of Muslim converts. In the 23 April 2000 issue (Borneo Bulletin 2000: 22), an
article on this subject was accompanied by a picture of the Sultan, presumably to
add prestige to this phenomenon: ‘From 1971 to 1999 there were altogether 9,570
converts in the country’, under the title ‘More Embrace Islam’. The newspaper did
not mention the economic and other social advantages to be gained from conversion
to Islam, which may be significant attractions for those intending to convert, or the
fact of compulsory conversion to Islam by marriage to a Muslim. At the same time,
Brunei should not be seen as particularly different from many other nationalistic
governments in their attempts at homogenisation towards a single religion, language,
ethnicity, or political idea.
21. For more comprehensive descriptions of Eastern Penan foraging economies, see,
among others, Langub (1989) and Needham (in this volume).
22. Rousseau (1990: 46) argued that Barth’s (1969) view of ‘ethnicity’ as ‘the most
general identity’ is inapplicable to Borneo because it is not the major marker of socio-
economic differences. I would suggest that, in the case of Eastern Penan, ethnicity is
a clear and useful marker since, wherever one travels among Eastern Penan, they are
inevitably the poorest people in a given area. I am aware of no exceptions to this.
259
23. The Penan cannot travel any further than Bukit Sawat, a small settlement downriver
that adjoins both the road south from the coast and the Belait River, as no Penan
in Sukang has a car. Penan are occasionally able to secure lifts in cars from teachers
returning home, but not from the neighbouring Dusun, who are reluctant to
take them, since their cars are more likely to be full with family members and/or
supplies.
24. Leake (1990: 105) claimed that the Penan Sukang were planting wet or swamp rice
and cultivating rumbia (sago palms), but the former has never taken place among
any of the groups in Sukang Sub-district and the latter practice began to decline in
the 1960s and stopped altogether in the mid-1980s.
25. Nearly every Penan village that I have ever visited has a similarly poor record of
rearing chickens for domestic consumption.
26. Dusun and Iban buy foodstuffs in bulk downriver, which they can then store in
their freezers at home in the upriver sub-district.
27. Penan store wild pig fat on the occasions that they obtain it.
28. Ellen and Bernstein (1994: 16) felt that Bruneians ‘who traditionally made a living
from forest products (Dusun, Iban, Murut and Kedayan) have been lured to wage
employment. This has resulted in a flow of people to towns and the emptying of
rural villages’. This is certainly true for Dusun, less so for Iban and Penan.
29. See Nicolaisen (1976b: 208; although his focus was actually Western Penan), who
wrote that ‘[a]ll Penan still collect wild sago in the forest’, as if this is a defining
characteristic of being Penan, yet the Penan Sukang have abandoned this practice,
but remain Penan. Brosius (1991a) suggested that Penan may abandon their
traditional management of forest resources with increased availability of cultivated
foods, and those which can be bought if they have access to these and the money
to buy them. This is the case in Sukang. Sather (1995: 255) also suggested that
‘[w]hile foragers may be in the process of becoming sedentary, the end result is
by no means a complete conversion to cultivation, much less to full-time rice
agriculture. Instead, partially settled foragers usually continue to forage, often,
in fact, intensifying their collection of forest products as they take up part-time
cultivation for subsistence’. This is not the case in Sukang (see Ellen 1994: 205),
where the Penan now rely mainly on cash, rice-farming, and fishing. In Sukang
Sub-district, the Iban collect far more intensively and widely than the Penan,
besides which the Iban do not mind being out at night in the search for resources,
while the Penan do.
30. Sellato (1994a) has written that egalitarian groups like the Iban do their own
commercial foraging and so do not need the services of the Penan.
31. Ironically, the Penan in Brunei make less use of the plentiful resources available to
them than the Penan who inhabit the middle Baram areas of Sarawak, who have a
far more limited range of natural resources to exploit.
32. In some respects, the Penan Sukang contrast considerably with Eastern Penan in
Sarawak: among Penan in Sarawak, there is a highly developed sense of political
consciousness (Sercombe 1996b). A number of Penan in Sarawak have received
higher education, moved downriver, and taken up government administrative
260
posts or returned to teach in upriver (Penan) schools. Among these Penan, there
have been clashes with loggers, vociferous objections to oil palm projects, as well as
close interaction with journalists and tourists. Penan in Sarawak are also aware of
commercial markets and of the value of their culture as a commodity that has been
put on exhibit, for example, at the Sarawak Cultural Village in Kuching. The Penan
in Sarawak have had to adapt to deforestation, which has not affected the interior of
Brunei to any great extent. And most of the Penan in Sarawak have been converted
to Christianity (ibid.).
33. According to Jamal Gantar (pers. comm.), the Dusun and Penan did not affect each
other, in any distinct social or cultural way, before, during, or after Penan settlement.
It was only with the arrival of Iban that both Dusun and, subsequently, Penan were
affected socio-culturally. Significant evidence for this has been the adoption of Iban
as the lingua franca for Sukang Sub-district.
34. See Glazer and Moynihan (1975: 4), on the ways in which ethnic groups tend to be
seen as historical relics, yet many engender change and regenerate themselves while
clearly remaining identifiable as a particular ethnic group.
261
Chapter 11
PENAN ETHNOBOTANY: SUBSISTENCE

STRATEGY AND BREADTH
OF KNOWLEDGE
By Robert A. Voeks
Abstract: It has been hypothesised, that the plant pharmacopoeias employed by hunting
and gathering societies should be significantly smaller than those maintained by small-scale
cultivators. The author uses knowledgeable Penan and Dusun informants to examine
this hypothesis by means of a one-hectare-plot-based census of perceived medicinal species
in old growth, mixed Dipterocarp forest in Brunei Darussalam. He suggests that the
subsistence continuum from foraging to farming is necessarily accompanied by an ampli-
fied understanding of the medicinal properties of plants.
INTRODUCTION
The subsistence strategies of Borneo’s interior societies are (or were) divided
roughly between nomadic hunter-gatherers, especially the Penan (or Punan),
and settled swidden agriculturalists, such as the Kenyah, the Kayan, and the
Dusun. The Penan concentrate their efforts on blowpipe and spear hunting of
the Bearded pig (Sus barbatus) and other forest game, as well as the preparation
of sago from nangah (Eugeissona utilis), a wild, clump-forming palm. They also
collect a variety of non-timber forest products for food, fibre, medicine, and other
purposes. Most swidden farming groups, on the other hand, focus on hill rice
262
Penan Ethnobotany
cultivation, supplemented by snare hunting, fishing, and wild plant extraction

(see Brosius 1992a, King 1993, Padoch and Peluso 1996, Rousseau 1990, Sellato
1994a). Both subsistence systems are characterised by an intimate understanding
of the plant kingdom. Nevertheless, because ethnobotanical knowledge among
traditional societies is largely utilitarian (Hunn 1982), it follows that the
Penan, whose livelihoods depend completely on their knowledge of the forest,
should maintain a greater breadth of ethnobotanical understanding than their
cultivating counterparts. Thus, whereas Borneo’s swidden societies focus their
plant skills on domesticated rice varieties, the foraging Penan by choice direct
their botanical efforts at naming and exploiting the island’s wild primary forest
providence.
However intuitively persuasive, the notion that hunter-gatherers such as the
Penan maintain greater levels of ethnobotanical knowledge than small-scale
cultivators has not been supported by research. Using lexical breadth as an index
of ethnobotanical knowledge, Brown (1985) reported that small-scale cultivators
maintained a magnitude of named plant categories some five times greater on
average than that of foragers. Cultivators averaged 890 named plant classes,
whereas hunter-gathers exhibited a mean of only 179. With two exceptions, all
of the farming societies in his census had more than 337 labelled plant taxa,
whereas all the foraging groups maintained less than 337 plant labels. Berlin
(1992: 98), who used the number of named folk genera rather than simply
named taxa, likewise discerned a significant variation in the number of folk
generics between groups employing different subsistence strategies. In his
literature survey, small-scale farming groups averaged 520 folk generic names,
whereas hunter-gathering societies averaged only 197. The question, then,
is whether there are some inherent features associated with a predominantly
foraging life style that lend themselves to the development of a relatively small
ethnobotanical lexicon and, hence, a limited quantitative knowledge of the
surrounding flora.
Brown (1985) advanced several hypotheses to account for this disparity.
He noted, for example, that ethnobotanical lexicons are amplified significantly by
the acquisition of domesticated crop species and their varieties, a flora with which
foragers should have relatively limited familiarity. Moreover, even without the
numerical addition of cultigens, the process of crop cultivation, as opposed to
simple plant extraction, has the effect of converting relatively homogenous old
growth vegetation into a patchwork of successional and often highly productive
seral stages for plant recognition and exploitation (see Chazdon and Coe 1999;
Toledo et al. 1992; Voeks 1996a). In addition, the myriad weedy plant invaders
263
associated with cultivation, species with little or no salience to wild food gatherers,
are likely to receive the attention necessary among cultivators to warrant plant
labels (Ellen 1999).
Brown (1985) further suggested that the principal benefits associated with this
reliance on domesticated crops – increased food supplies and its resultant enhanced
carrying capacity – would likely carry the liability of heightened risks of famine (see
also Hunn and French 1984: 89). Unlike hunter-gatherers, who depend on wild
food species that are reasonably well adapted to occasional environmental
fluctuations, cultivators by choice bank on food resources that are at the mercy of
periodic crop failure from droughts, floods, insect outbreaks, and other natural and
social calamities. Thus, periodic hunger is seen as a driving force behind the
acquisition of an amplified understanding of temporary famine foods, and thus an
expanded ethnobotanical inventory. Groups pursuing a purely foraging form of
subsistence, on the other hand, because of their low population densities and
reliance on a relatively reliable subsistence base, are seldom if ever required to exploit
such marginal food resources.
Brown (1985) further posited that the contrasting demographic patterns
associated with hunting and gathering and with cultivating might also play a role
in plant name acquisition and retention. In this view, farming societies would
naturally suffer from a greater range of illnesses, especially viral ‘crowd diseases’,
than their foraging counterparts, because of their greater population densities. This
enhanced risk of disease would, in turn, force small-scale cultivators to become
better acquainted with the medicinal properties of the native flora and, as a result,
expand their labelled plant pharmacopoeia.
Brown’s conclusions can be criticised on methodological and theoretical
grounds. For example, establishing a clear demarcation between what constitutes a
hunter-gatherer as opposed to a shifting cultivator existence is problematic. Foraging
groups often engage in incipient horticultural enterprise, and cultivators are often
skilled hunters and gatherers (Brosius 1991a, Layton et al. 1991). Moreover, Ellen
(1998) has questioned the use of lexically encoded plant knowledge as an index of
ethnobotanical knowledge. Foragers, he suggests, may compensate for a limited
breadth of plant knowledge by maintaining a greater substantive knowledge of the
plant taxa that they exploit. More specifically, Berlin (1992: 283–290) questioned
Brown’s emphasis on neo-functionalist explanations for ethnobotanical knowledge.
However, although Berlin argued against the necessity of domestication as the
principal agent behind the acquisition of folk specific taxa, he did not fully address
the underlying issue of whether or not utility is the principal driving force behind
expanded folk genera.
264
Penan Ethnobotany
The most serious challenge to Brown’s results comes from the data sets used
in his calculations. Many of the small-scale cultivators in his inventory inhabit
species-rich, moist tropical regions, where the opportunities to exploit different
plant taxa are legion. Most of the hunter-gatherer records he used, however,
were for groups occupying less speciose, temperate zone habitats (Bulmer 1985,
Berlin 1992: 99). Clearly, the validity of comparing groups from such widely
different biomes as tundra and tropical forest is open to question. Indeed,
Headland (1985) subsequently compiled an ethnobotanical lexicon of 603
plant terms for Negrito hunter-gatherers in the Philippines, well within the
range of that reported for cultivating groups. Later, Ichikawa (1992) identified
over 500 species being used by the Mbuti in the Republic of the Congo, a figure
very near the mean reported for small-scale farmers. Clearly, the most unbiased
means of assessing this issue would be through an ethnobotanical census of
hunter-gatherers and cultivators who occupy the same tropical habitat (Berlin
1992: 99).
The objectives of the present study were two fold (1) to test Brown’s hypothesis
regarding the magnitude of folk plant names maintained by hunter-gatherers and
small-scale cultivators in Borneo, and (2) to determine the degree to which
ethnobotanical salience among these groups is a function of cultural utility. In order
to reduce the influence of differing biodiversity levels encountered by geographically
separated groups, I worked with sympatric foraging and cultivating groups – the
Penan and Dusun of Brunei Darussalam – people with the opportunity to know
and utilise essentially the same range of plants and habitats. I also avoided the
question of whether or not complete ethnobotanical lists were produced for either
group by employing a plot-based sampling method.
CULTURE AND SETTING

The Penan consist of two disjunct populations – the Eastern and Western Penan.
They are distributed in Sarawak in East Malaysia, Kalimantan in Indonesia, and
Brunei Darussalam (King 1993: 166–170; Needham in this volume). These two
sub-groups exhibit distinct differences in language, group size, foraging range,
nomadic characteristics, and degree of social organisation (Brosius 1992a: 66).
The group in this study, the Penan at Sukang, were nomadic hunter-gatherers
in Sarawak and southern Brunei prior to settling in 1962 (Sercombe 1996a;
see Map 10.1). They constitute one of the ethnic isolates of the Eastern Penan
phylum that inhabit areas to the east of the Baram River in Sarawak, as far as
the Limbang watershed, south to the Kalimantan border and north into Brunei.
265
There are presently 56 people who occupy a longhouse on the west bank of the
Belait River in the interior of Brunei.
The Penan at Sukang are undergoing many of the socio-cultural changes that
are affecting other indigenous groups in Borneo (Ellen and Bernstein 1994). These
include accepting wage-earning employment, miscegenating with non-Penan
cultivating groups, absorption of lexical elements from nearby groups (especially
Iban), and religious conversion. Four families, by the time of this study, had
converted to Islam. Moreover, all the families at Sukang have substituted hill rice
cultivation for wild sago. Indeed, several of the distinctive cultural elements listed
by Needham (1963) as indicators of their ‘Penan-ness’ have been abandoned by the
Penan at Sukang. These include, among others, living in huts, men wearing
loincloths, men with distended earlobes, use of penis pins, and plucked eyelashes
and brows.
In spite of these changes, the Penan at Sukang represent a good compromise
source of information regarding a traditional Bornean hunter-gatherer society.
Sercombe (1996a) found, for example, that the Penan language predominates at
Sukang, although Iban and Malay words are rapidly being incorporated. Several of
the fundamental elements that distinguish the Penan as a distinct group survive at
Sukang as well, including preparation of blowpipes, hunting, and sharing of game
meat. Hunting and gathering are still significant activities, in part because Brunei
has strictly limited its timber extraction activities, leaving it with extensive areas of
primary Dipterocarp forest. Moreover, because possession of firearms is punishable
by a mandatory death penalty in Brunei, game is relatively plentiful and is still
pursued with traditional spears and blowpipes. These features contrast sharply with
those of the neighbouring Sarawak, where shotgun proliferation has eliminated much
of the wild game, and where most of the old-growth forests have been severely logged
over. Finally, although some of the Penan at Sukang have converted to Islam, most
continue to subscribe to their original animist belief system (Voeks and Sercombe
2000). In Sarawak, where many of the Penan groups have converted to Christianity,
the original spiritual ties that bound these groups to the land have disappeared.
The Dusun of Brunei represent one of the oldest settled agricultural groups in the
region. Although officially recognised as Malay by the Brunei government, the Dusun
appear to be linguistically related to the Bisaya, an ethnic group currently inhabiting
the Limbang region of Sarawak (Bernstein et al. 1997). They traditionally lived in
village longhouses, but this practice was largely abandoned in favour of single-family
dwellings after World War II. Their subsistence economy, at least until recently,
depended on community-based, swidden rice cultivation. This was supplemented by
fishing and hunting of forest game, and collection of extractive products (Antaran
266
Penan Ethnobotany
1993). Dusun subsistence was also notable in that it frequently included the creation
and maintenance of orchards of wild and semi-domesticated fruit trees.
Dusun society has undergone significant changes as well since the 1950s. Most
young people are abandoning traditional agricultural activities in favour of wage-
earning jobs in the coastal cities. Many have entered the Brunei armed forces, and
a few have received advanced degrees from foreign universities. The younger
generations, having passed through the Brunei school system, are now fluent in
Malay (Ellen and Bernstein 1994). However, although increasing numbers are
intermarrying with Malays and converting to Islam, the Dusun spiritual belief
system is surprisingly intact, even among urban Dusun. Nevertheless, knowledge
of the forest is disappearing quickly among this group and is, increasingly, the
exclusive domain of a dwindling number of older Dusun.
The floristic landscape of this region comprised a mix of tropical forest ecosystem
types. These include lowland peat forests, riparian forests, heath forests, and mixed
Dipterocarp forests. The last type, however, represents each group’s primary habitat
for exploitation. Mixed Dipterocarp forest, which is characterised by tall, broadleaf
evergreen trees sometimes exceeding 60 m in height, is numerically dominated by
the speciose Dipterocarpaceae family. Other particularly rich families include the
Ebenaceae, Euphorbiaceae, Myrtaceae, and Annonaceae. The understory is rich in
palms, including a host of rattan climbers (e.g., Calamus spp. and Daemonorops spp.)
and shrubby licuala (Licuala spp.). The old-growth forest floor is carpeted with
herbaceous ginger (Zingiberaceae), ferns, and forest tree seedlings (see Edwards and
Cranbrook 1994; Poulson and Pendry 1995).
The soils of this area are mostly ultisols developed on soft shale substrate. Mean
annual precipitation ranges from 2,000 to 3,000 mm, distributed more or less
evenly throughout the year (Sirinanda 1990).
METHODS
I sampled the known and/or culturally significant species of the Penan and
Dusun in a 1.0-hectare forest plot. In addition to representing a relatively
unbiased sampling method for ethnobotanical work, plot-based sampling has the
advantage of being repeatable in other habitats and among other human groups
(see Phillips et al. 1994, Prance et al. 1987, Voeks 1996b). The plot, located in
old-growth mixed Dipterocarp forest, represents a permanent ecological study
plot maintained by the Universiti Brunei Darussalam. It is floristically dominated
in order of importance by Dipterocarpaceae, Euphorbiaceae, Ebenaceae, and
Anacardiaceae. All trees greater than 5 cm dbh (diameter at breast height)
267
had previously been labelled, vouchered, and identified to genus or species.

A total of 303 tree species or morpho-species were enumerated among the 1,086
individual trees in the plot. Lianas, epiphytes, and other life forms were not
included in the original census.
I worked with a 44-year-old Penan informant (Udhi anak Kutok) and a
64-year-old Dusun informant (Kilat bin Kilah) to census the plot. Although the
original plan had been to employ two informants from each group, Udhi was the
only unmarried adult male Penan at Sukang, and thus the only member who was
able to leave the village for days at a time. However, I was confident that Udhi’s
knowledge of the forest was reasonably representative of the group as a whole. He
was still actively engaged in hunting and gathering and, compared to the married
male members of the group, spent relatively little time working the swiddens.
Kilat had been a swidden rice farmer in Bukit Sawat for 50 plus years, and had
recently retired. I had worked with him in an earlier ethnomedical study, and
found him to be quite knowledgeable about the local flora. However, given that
there were only two main informants, it is acknowledged that this study is both
suggestive and preliminary, and that further data should be gathered to investigate
the validity of the claims made here.
The plot was censused individually by Udhi and Kilat between 8 October 1993
and 21 October 1994. Both men were asked to identify all known individual plants,
regardless of whether they were or were not considered useful. The concept of
‘useful’ in this context was explained to refer to ‘cultural significance,’ that is,
material, magical, avoidance, or otherwise. The plot was divided into 10 m × 10 m
sub-plots, which facilitated the census. We moved from one sub-plot to the next,
examining each numbered tree, as well as all accessible lianas, rattans, shrubs,
epiphytes, and herbs. The questions posed at each plant were ‘Do you have a name
for this plant?’ and ‘Does this plant have meaning or value to the Penan (or Dusun)
people?’ If the answer to either question was yes, then Udhi or Kilat was asked to
explain further. In these cases, the numbered tree was recorded or, if it was not a
numbered tree, the plant was collected using standard vouchering procedures.
Collections were stored at the Brunei Forestry Department Herbarium, and
determinations were made by the local herbarium staff.
As noted earlier, there is little question that ethnobotanical lexicons are enhanced
significantly by the addition of domesticated crop plants. The more problematic
question, however, is whether quantitative knowledge of wild plants also increases
along the transition from foraging to farming. In this particular case, old-growth
tropical rain forest represents the preferred foraging habitat for the Penan. By their
own accounts, they did not, for fear of offending forest spirits, cut trees larger in
268
Penan Ethnobotany
diameter than that of their forearms (Voeks and Sercombe 2000). Nor, again by
their own accounts, did they hunt or collect forest products in the secondary forests
created by their swidden neighbours. Although I could not test the veracity of these
claims, I have no reason to doubt that old-growth forests are at the least their
preferred habitat (Brosius 1991a; Needham in this volume). This preference
contrasts markedly with the Dusun and other Bornean cultivators, who utilise the
full range of seral communities, from highly disturbed to nearly pristine. In terms
of the quantitative objectives of this study, this narrow habitat preference in effect
gives the hunter-gatherer group the advantage. Thus, if the magnitude of the
Penan’s ethnobotanical knowledge is within the range of their Dusun farming
neighbours, then surely it should be elicited in a census of their principal foraging
habitat.
GENERAL CENSUS RESULTS

Udhi, the Penan informant, furnished a total of 45 basic labels for plants in the
plot (Table 11.1). These were distributed among 18 different plant families, 39
genera, and 58 species. The most speciose culturally significant families were
Dipterocarpaceae, with 15 species; Palmae, with eight species, Euphorbiaceae,
with seven species; and Myristicaceae, with four species. The most species-rich
genera included Shorea, with nine species; Daemonorops, with three species;
Dipterocarpus, with three species; and Vatica, with two species.
Kilat, the Dusun informant, identified 84 different basic plant names (Table
11.2). These were distributed among 42 different families, 87 genera, and 185
species. The most quantitatively important families were Ebenaceae, with 17
species; Myrtaceae, with 16 species; and Dipterocarpaceae, with 15 species. The
most numerous genera were Diospyros, with 17 species; Syzygium, with 16 species;
Shorea, with seven species; and Gluta, with five species. Unlike Udhi, who supplied
names for all the culturally significant species he identified, Kilat failed to provide
names for a significant number of medicinal taxa, which he stated he knew but
could not remember. Although we were later able to resolve several of these names,
13 useful taxa remained without Dusun folk labels. Thus, in terms of quantitative
plant salience and significance, Kilat knew this patch of forest much better than
Udhi. Kilat provided 87 per cent more plant names than Udhi. He also identified
2.3 times more culturally significant plant families, 2.2 times more genera, and
3.2 times more species.
Among the species named and/or given cultural significance by Udhi and Kilat,
only 21 were recognised by both (Table 11.3). For Udhi, these 21 species represented
269
Table 11.1. Plant Species Named and Identified as Useful by Penan
Penan Name Use Species Family Life Voucher
Form Number
abang Cooking oil from fruit Shorea acuta Ashton Dipterocarpaceae T RV422
Shorea amplexicaulis Ashton Dipterocarpaceae T x
aoh No use Xanthophyllum scortechinii King Polygalaceae T x
batang kevok No use Koilodepas longifolium HK.F. Euphorbiaceae T x
bekayu Fashion chop sticks to eat sago Ixora cf. glomeruliflora Bremek. Rubiaceae SH RV420
bekelah Leaves used as sand-paper for blowpipes Tetracera macrophylla Hook.F. & Thoms. Dilleniaceae TL RV424
belulang Edible fruit Ptychopyxis sp. Euphorbiaceae TL RV418
benua Leaves fashioned into packets Macaranga trachyphylla Airy Shaw Euphorbiaceae TL x
for carrying food
boheng Fuelwood; wood mortar for Elateriospermum tapos Bl. Euphorbiaceae T x
removing rice husk
itot (daun) Edible pith from lower stem; Licuala sp. Palmae SH RV427
leaves made into hats
janan (bua) Edible fruit; rattan for mats and baskets Calamus cf. ornatus Blume Palmae CL RV432
270
jemelah Poles for forest huts Brownlowia sp. Tiliaceae T x
karot Edible fruit Garcinia mangostana L. Guttiferae TL RV413
kelingin aham Fuelwood Aporusa subcandata Merr. Euphorbiaceae T x
keramo Edible fruit Dacryodes laxa Benn. H. J. Lam Burseraceae TL RV423
keruong Edible fruit Dacryodes expansa (Ridl.) H. J. Lam Burseraceae TL RV415

kevahah Fuelwood Vatica umbonata (Hook. F.) Burck. Dipterocarpaceae T x
kovong aput Timber for longhouse construction Dipterocarpus geniculatus Vesque Dipterocarpaceae T x
lemesong Fuelwood Shorea dasyphylla Foxw. Dipterocarpaceae T x
Gironniera parviflora Planch. Ulmaceae T x
lesuan Timber for longhouse construction Dryobalanops aromatica Dyer. Dipterocarpaceae T x
Shorea parviflora Dyer. Dipterocarpaceae T x
manan mitus Edible fruit Santiria tomentosa Bl. Burseraceae T x
medong Edible fruit Artocarpus odoratissimus Blanco Moraceae T x
mejingring No use Dipterocarpus acutangulus Vesq. Dipterocarpaceae T x
mesilat Edible fruit Nephelium cuspidatum Bl. Sapindaceae TL RV419
ngah No use Melanochyla beccariana Oliv. Anacardiaceae T x
Gluta macrocarpa (Engl.) Hou. Anacardiaceae T x
Gluta sp. Anacardiaceae T x
nyagang Trunk used to fashion blowpipes Prainea frutescens Bl. Moraceae T x
nyereyuh Fuelwood Mallotus eucaustus Airy-Shaw Euphorbiaceae T x
nyivung Edible palm heart Oncosperma horridum (Griff.) Scheff Palmae T NC
paa No use Koompasia malaccensis Maingay Leguminosae T x
penawon Leaves used for medicinal rubbing Polyalthia sp. Annonaceae SH RV421
peripun Edible fruit Artocarpus melinoxylus Gagn. Moraceae T x
perutang Edible fruit Pometia pinnata Foster Sapindaceae T RV416
pidau (bua) Edible fruit Baccaurea angulata Merr. Euphorbiaceae T RV414
rahaa Fuelwood Gymnacranthera contracta Myristacaceae T x
Horsfieldia polyspherula (Hook. f. Emend Myristacaceae T x
King) Sinclair
Knema cf. laurina (Bl.) Warb. Myristacaceae T x
Knema cf. rufa Warb. Myristacaceae T x
rangah Timber for longhouse construction Dipterocarpus eurynchus Miq. Dipterocarpaceae T x
Shorea elliptica Burck. Dipterocarpaceae T x
271
Shora faguetiana Heim. Dipterocarpaceae T x
Shorea glaucescens Meijer. Dipterocarpaceae T x
Shorea quadrinervis V. Sl. Dipterocarpaceae T x
Scaphium macropodum (Miq.) Bl. Sterculiaceae T x
Penan Ethnobotany
selapong (wai) Rattan woven into bags and mats Daemonorops formicaria Becc. Palmae CL RV430
semui (wai) Rattan woven into bags and mats Calamus pogonacanthus Becc. Palmae CL RV428
sin savit belengon Edible palm heart Daemonorops korthalsii Blume Palmae CL RV431
sin savit medok Edible fruit; cooked heart is edible Daemonorops periacantha Miq. Palmae CL RV429
tebangat Edible fruit Xerospermum noronhianum Bl. Sapindaceae T x
tepungen pawa Fuelwood Cryptocarya erectinervia Kosterm. Lauraceae T x
tilikut Burn bark for insect repellant Goniothalamus velutinus Airy Shaw Annonaceae T RV412
upak (daun) Edible pith from lower stem Borassadendron borneense J. Dransfield Palmae TL RV426
utong Fuelwood Shorea biawak Ashton Dipterocarpaceae T x
sulat Vatica sp. Dipterocarpaceae T x
uvat Type of edible starch Gironniera hirta Ridl. Ulmaceae T x
Table 11.2. Plant Species Named and Identified as Useful by Dusun
Dusun Name Use Species Family Life Voucher
Form Number
abang Timber for upper house; vegetable Shorea amplexicaulis Ashton Dipterocarpaceae T x
oil pressed from fruits Shorea mecistopteryx Ridl. Dipterocarpaceae T x
adal Snack food Canarium littorale Bl. Burseraceae T x
Canarium pilosum Benn. Burseraceae T x
ambuk sagubang kayuh Root as poison antidote Trigonostemon polyanthus Merr. Euphorbiaceae T RV519
var. lychnus R.I. Milne
anggih Timber for upper house construction Dryobalanops aromatica Gaertn. f. Dipterocarpaceae T x
arak-arak Wood for machete sheath Shorea biawak Ashton Dipterocarpaceae T x
atung Wood for musical instrument Blumeodendron kurzi (Hook f.) J.J. Sm. Euphorbiaceae T x
Blumeodendron sp. 1 Euphorbiaceae T x
badui Nasal medicine Costus paradoxus K. Schum. Costaceae H RV469
banawar bukid Fuelwood Pternandra coriacea (Cogn.) Nayar Melastomataceae T x
272
Pternandra crassicalyx Maxw. Melastomataceae T x
banculuk Male root tonic Lepisanthes fruticosa (Roxb.) Leenh. Sapindaceae TL RV523
bantangu (uwai) Rattan for making baskets Daemonarops oxycarpa Becc. Palmae TL RV527
barang Stem for hut flooring Pinanga mooreana J. Dransf. Palmae TL RV520
bidang Edible palm heart; leaves for thatch Licuala sp. 1 Palmae SH RV504
bila pinggan Chopsticks fashioned from stem Ixora glomeruliflora Brem. Rubiaceae T x
Ixora pyranthra Bremek. Rubiaceae TL RV502
Ixora lancisepala Ridl. Rubiaceae SH RV545
bubuk Edible fruit; wood for spinning tops Drypetes kikir Airy Shaw Euphorbiaceae T x
Drypetes macrostigma J. J. Sm. Euphorbiaceae T x
bukuh-tabuh To build temporary shelters Carallia brachiata (Lour.) Merr. Rhizophoraceae T x
dapa Beams for longhouse Vatica albiramis Sloot. Dipterocarpaceae T x
construction Vatica nitens King Dipterocarpaceae T x
Vatica vinosa Ashton Dipterocarpaceae T x
dapa loson Timber for house construction Strombosia ceylanica Gardn. Olacaceae T x
dilawat To build temporary shelters Anisophyllea ferruginea Ding Hou Rhizophoraceae T x
durian mantui Excellent fruit Durio grandiflorus (Mast.) Kost. & Soeg. Bombacaceae T x
guis Fiber for string, straps for baskets Sterculia cuspidata R. Br. Sterculiaceae T x
Sterculia rynchophylla Schum. Sterculiaceae T x
Sterculia translucens Stapf Sterculiaceae T x
kalampanas Various magical uses in tamarok Goniothalamus velutinus Airy Shaw Annonaceae SH RV450
kalabid mpuri (akau) Rope material Spatholobus sp. Leguminosae L RV526
kamanggis Edible fruit Nephelium uncinatum Radlk. ex Leenh. Sapindaceae T x
kambang bua No use Pimelodendron griffithianum Euphorbiaceae T x
(Muell. Arg.) Benth
kamburat Root decoction for blood in vomit Ampelocissus imperialis (Miq.) Planch. Vitaceae H RV465
kamburat (akau) Bone medicine; leaves burned Ampelocissus winkleri Lauterb. Vitaceae CL RV457
as paddy insecticide RV528
kapayang Edible fruit; medicinal Scaphium macropodum (Miq.) Bl. Sterculiaceae T x
273
karuing Longhouse planks Dipterocarpus conformis V. Sl. Dipterocarpaceae T x
lambat (uwai) Edible heart; fronds for fish traps Daemonorops periacantha Miq. Palmae TL RV452
landai tiwou Leaves to fashion snares Pinanga mirabilis Becc. Palmae SH RV451
Penan Ethnobotany
lanyang Wood for planks Dehaasia sp. 1 Lauraceae T x

latid Edible fruit Dipterocarpus geniculatus Vesque Dipterocarpaceae T x
latu Leaves are good luck for paddy Homalomena sp. Araceae H RV516
lawong Root decoction for kidney pain Calophyllum sp. Guttiferae TL RV458
libas House timber with magical properties Artocarpus nitidus Trec. Moraceae T x
lilas Edible fruit; timber for upper house Swintonia foxworthyii Elmer Anacardiaceae T x
Swintonia schwenckii Teijsm. Anacardiaceae T x
Mesua hexapetala (Baill.) Kosterm. Guttiferae T x
Mesua oblongifolia Baill. Guttiferae T x
Mesua macrantha (Baill.) Kosterm. Guttiferae T x
limboh (akau) Medicine for baby colic; jaundice Fibraurea tinctoria Lour. Menispermaceae CL RV532
(continued)
Table 11.2. Plant Species Named and Identified as Useful by Dusun (continued)
Form Number
limpanas purak Stem has magical properties Goniothalamus umbrosus J. Sinclair Annonaceae TL RV530
madang lutung High quality fruit Artocarpus odoratissimus Blanco Moraceae T x
mandap Walls from pounded bark; fuelwood Cyathocalyx carinatus Ridl. Annonaceae T x
Goniothalamus roseus Stapf. Annonaceae T x
Phaeanthus crassipetalus Becc. Annonaceae T x
mandap etom Walls from pounded bark Polyalthia motleyana Annonaceae T x
(Hk. f. & Th.) Airy Shaw
mau gabuk Edible fruit Mallotus wrayi King. ex Hook. f. Euphorbiaceae T x
Dimocarpus sp. 1 Sapindaceae T x
mbarugih Fine wood products Koompasia malaccensis Maingay Leguminosae T x
mbokot Edible fruit; good luck Nephelium macrophyllum Radlk. Sapindaceae TL RV517
mpagas Snare material Memycylon garcinioides Bl. Melastomataceae T x
274
Memycylon magacarpum Furtado Melastomataceae T x
Memycylon sp. 4 Melastomataceae T x
mpagas purak Snare material Koilodepas longifolium Hk. f. Euphorbiaceae T x
Teijsmanniodendron coriaceum Kosterm Verbenaceae T x
Teijsmanniodendron hollrungii Warb. Verbenaceae T x
Teijsmanniodendron simplicifolium Merr. Verbenaceae T x

natu Edible oil from fruit; wood Palaquium gutta (Hk. f.) Baill. Sapotaceae T x
planks for construction Palaquium rostratum (Miq.) Burck Sapotaceae T x
Payena obscura Burck Sapotaceae T x
ndangoh Fish traps fashioned from Pandanus borneensis Warb. Pandanaceae SH RV506
stilt roots
ndaraa Material for temporary shelters Gymnacranthera contracta Warb. Myristacaceae T x
Gymnacranthera farquariana Myristacaceae T x
(Hk. f. & Th.) Warb.
Gymnacranthera forbesii (King) Warb. Myristacaceae T x
Horsfieldia polyspherula Myristacaceae T x
(Hook. f. Emend King) Sinclair
Horsfieldia tomentosa Warb. Myristacaceae T x
Knema cf. laurina (Bl.) Warb. Myristacaceae T x
Knema percoriacea Sincl. Myristacaceae T x
Knema cf. rufa Warb. Myristacaceae T x
Myristica cinnamomea King Myristacaceae T x
Myristica malaccensis Hook. f. Myristacaceae T x
Myristica smithiesii J. Sinclair Myristacaceae T x
Myristica villosa Warb. Myristacaceae T x
Myristica sp. 1 Myristacaceae T x
ngkodong (or kodong) Store leaves in barn to increase Microcos cinnamonifolia Burret Tiliaceae TL RV514
rice harvest—magic RV473
ngkruab Store leaves in barn to increase Xanthophyllum reticulatum Chodat Polygalaceae TL RV518
rice harvest—magic
275
ngkulang Fuelwood Heritiera sumatrana (Miq.) Kosterm. Sterculiaceae T x
nguluon Edible fruit Dacryodes incurvata (Engl.) H.J. Lam Burseraceae T x
Penan Ethnobotany
nibung Edible palm heart; wood Oncosperma horridum (Griff.) Scheff Palmae T NC
for longhouse beams
ntangur Timber for upper house construction Calophyllum gracilipes Merr. Guttiferae T x
Calophyllum stipitatum P. F. Stevens Guttiferae T x
ntarom (uwai) Stem for weaving mats; barbed Calamus sordidus J. Dransf. Palmae CL RV507
whip for fish traps
ntungol No use Santiria tomentosa Bl. Burseraceae T x
Palih No use Helicia fuscotomentosa Suesseng Proteaceae T x
(continued)
Form Number
parong No use Diospyros borneensis Hiern. Ebenaceae T x
Diospyros brachiata K. & G. Ebenaceae T x
Diospyros buxifolia (Bl.) Hiern. Ebenaceae T x
Diospyros dictyoneura Hiern. Ebenaceae T x
Diospyros cf. fusiformis Kosterm. Ebenaceae T x
Diospyros hermaphroditica (Zoll.) Bakh. Ebenaceae T x
Diospyros macrophylla Bl. Ebenaceae T x
Diospyros cf. mindanaensis Merr. Ebenaceae T x
Diospyros muricata Bakh. Ebenaceae T x
Diospyros nidus-avis Kosterm. Ebenaceae T x
Diospyros pendula Hasselt ex Hassk. Ebenaceae T x
Diospyros cf. pseudomalabarica Bakh.
Diospyros swingleri Kosterm. Ebenaceae T x
Diospyros sp. 2 Ebenaceae T x
276
patidong Used in tamarok ceremonies to eliminate Dracaena sp. 2 Dracaenaceae TL RV515
bad spirits; other magical ends
pawas Timber for upper house Litsea caulocarpa Merr. Lauraceae T x

Litsea sp. 1 Lauraceae T x
piasau-piasau No use Pentace sp. 1 Tiliaceae T x
pilis Upper house timber; fashion Aporusa nitida Merr. Euphorbiaceae T x
mortar for removing rice husk Aporusa subcaudata Merr. Euphorbiaceae T x
Aporusa sp. 1 Euphorbiaceae T x
Aporusa sp. 2 Euphorbiaceae T x
pinang sisil No use--jinx plant Areca minuta Scheff. Palmae SH RV513
podos (uwai) Rope material; stem for spanking children Calamus javensis Bl. Palmae CL RV522
pogoh Edible fruit Elateriospermum tapos Bl. Euphorbiaceae T x
rangas No use--minor dermatitis Beilschmiedia cf. kunstleri Lauraceae T x
Ganua beccarii Dub. Sapotaceae T x
Ganua kingiana (Brace) V. D. Assem. Sapotaceae T x
rangas baduk No use -- serious dermatitis Gluta sp. Anacardiaceae T x
Gluta laxiflora Ridl. Anacardiaceae T x
Gluta cf. macrocarpa (Engl.) Ding Hou Anacardiaceae T x
Gluta cf. pubescens (Ridl.) Ding Hou Anacardiaceae T x
Gluta wallichii (Hook. f.) Ding Hou Anacardiaceae T x
rangas mpalang Bark burned as insecticide; Barringtonia lanceolata (Ridl.) Payens Lecythidaceae T x
piscicide in small lakes Barringtonia reticulata (Bl.) Miq. Lecythidaceae T x
Barringtonia sarcostachys (Merr.) Paynes Lecythidaceae T x
rangup Eat raw root to strengthen bones; burn Ardisia sp. Myrsinaceae TL RV508
leaves for protection against prosecution
sagang Edible fruit Alpinia cf. glabra Ridl. Zingiberaceae H RV509
sanggara Leaves edible; roots for male tonic Galearia fulva (Tul.) Miq. Pandanaceae TL RV505
sangkarai Excellent fuelwood Polyalthia hypoleuca Hk. f. & Th. Annonaceae T x
silad Leaves to wrap food; covering Licuala sp. 2 Palmae SH RV501
277
for snares; roof thatch; stems for Licuala cf. borneensis Becc. Palmae SH RV521
baskets; male root tonic
sisil No use—jinx Urophyllum hirsutum (Wight) Hook. f. Rubiaceae TL RV510
Penan Ethnobotany
sisil purak No use—jinx Litsea ferruginea (Blume) Blume Lauraceae TL RV512

tagalap Root infusion for blood in vomit Hosea lobbiana (C.B. Clarke) Ridl. Verbenaceae TL RV533
tawir Bark burned as insectidice in tobacco field Fordia filipes Dunn Leguminosae T x
Fordia splendidissima (Miq.) Leguminosae T x
Buisen ssp. splendidissima
tiga-tiga Leaves burned as tobacco insecticide; Luvunga motleyi Oliver Rutaceae TL RV524
latex applied topically for pancreas pain
(continued)
Form Number
tiis Resin for lamp fuel Shorea balanocarpoides Sym. Dipterocarpaceae T x
tinggilan Wood for axe handles and spinning tops Alangium javanicum (K. & V.) Wang Alangiaceae T x
Alangium sp. 1 Alangiaceae T x
ubor Timber for upper house construction Syzygium sp. 8 Myrtaceae T x
Syzygium sp. 9 Myrtaceae T x
278
unun parai Burn leaves as paddy insecticide Amomum sp. Zingiberaceae H RV511
upun Hard timber for longhouse beams Dipterocarpus acutangulus Vesq. Dipterocarpaceae T x
Dipterocarpus palembanicus Sloot. Dipterocarpaceae T x
Shorea virescens Parijs Dipterocarpaceae T x
Shorea sp. 3 Dipterocarpaceae T x
Shorea sp. 4 Dipterocarpaceae T x
no name Root decoction for rheumatism relief Dillenia sumatrana Miq. Dilleniaceae H RV456
no name Root medicine for blood in vomit Cinnamomum sp. Lauraceae H RV459
no name Root decoction to treat vertigo Bauhinia sp. Leguminosae CL RV462
no name Root medicine for blood in vomit Memecylon scolopacinum Ridl. Melastomataceae H RV463
no name Root medicine for blood in vomit Ziziphus borneensis Merr. Rhamnaceae H RV466
no name Root medicine for blood in vomit Aristolochia sp. Aristolochiaceae H RV467
no name Root medicine for blood in vomit Amischotolype sphagnorhiza Cowley Commelinaceae H RV468
no name Diarrhea medicine Pternandra cf. rostrata M. P. Nayar Melastomataceae SH RV470
no name Root medicine for blood in vomit Sp indet Menispermaceae H RV472
no name Root decoction for relief of chest pain Rubus sp. Rosaceae H RV474
no name Male root tonic Dichapetalum gelonioides (Roxb.) Dichapetalaceae CL RV529
Engl. ssp. pilosum Leenh.
no name Male root tonic Globba sp. Zingiberaceae H RV454
no name Male root tonic Ardisia sp. Myrsinaceae H RV455
RV464
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Penan Ethnobotany
Table 11.3. Plant Species with Cultural Significance for both Dusun and Penan
Species in Common Penan Name/ Significance Dusun Name/ Significance

Aporusa subcaudata kelingin aham/ fuelwood pilis/ timber; craft
Artocarpus odoratissimus medong/ fruit madang lutung/ fruit
Daemonorops periacantha sin savit medok/ fruit, heart lambat (uwai)/ heart, craft
Dipterocarpus acutangulus mejingring/ no value upun/ beams
Dipterocarpus geniculatus kovong aput/ timber latid/ fruit
Elateriospermum tapos boheng/ fuelwood, craft pogoh/ fruit
Gluta sp. Ngah/ no value rangas baduk/ dermatitis
Goniothalamus velutinus tilikut/ insecticide kalampanas/ magic
Gymnacranthera contracta rahaa/ fuelwood ndaraa/ shelters
Horsfieldia polyspherula rahaa/ fuelwood ndaraa/ shelters
Ixora glomeruliflora bekayu/ chop sticks bila pinggan/ chop sticks
Knema cf. laurina rahaa/ fuelwood ndaraa/ shelters
Knema cf. rufa rahaa/ fuelwood ndaraa/ shelters
Koilodepas longifolium batang kevok/ no value mpagas purak/ snares
Koompasia malaccensis paa/ no value mbarugih/ craft
Licuala sp. 1 itot (daun)/ edible pith, craft bidang/ edible pith, craft
Oncosperma horridum nyivung/ edible heart nibung/ edible heart, beams
Santiria tomentosa manan mitus/ fruit ntungol/ no value
Scaphium macropodum rangah/ timber kapayang/ fruit, medicinal
Shorea amplexicaulis abang/ oil abang/ oil, timber
Shorea biawak utong sulat/ fuelwood arak-arak/ machete
Total: 21 Species
36.2 per cent of the total number of taxa he recognised. For Kilat, this represented
only 11.4 per cent of his total. In addition, only five of these 21 taxa are employed
for similar purposes by Udhi and Kilat, and only three folk labels from this list are
clearly cognates (medong and madang lutud; nyivung and nibung; abang and abang).
Thus, this forest plot represents a distinctly different resource base and lexical
domain for these two forest dwellers.
There were marked differences in the range of culturally significant life forms
recognised by Kilat and Udhi (Table 11.4). On the one hand, the proportions of
trees, treelets, and shrubs were very consistent for the two. In each case, Kilat
recognised roughly three times more species than Udhi, quite similar to the 3:1
ratio of total recognised species. The principal differences were exhibited by vines,
which included climbers and lianas, and herbs. Udhi recognised the significance of
40 per cent less vines than Kilat. Most importantly, 8.4 per cent of the species
recognised by Kilat were herbaceous, whereas Udhi could not provide names or
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Penan Ethnobotany
Table 11.4. Differences in Culturally Significant Species for Dusun and Penan
Life Form Penan: Total Penan: % of Dusun: Dusun: % of Dusun Total:

Taxa Total Taxa Total Taxa Total Taxa Penan Total
Herbs 0 0 15 8.1 NA
Shrubs 3 5.2 9 4.9 3.0:1
Vines 5 8.6 7 3.8 1.4:1
Treelets 8 13.8 24 13.0 3.0:1
Trees 42 72.4 130 70.3 3.1:1
Total 58 100.0 185 100.1 3.2:1
utility for a single herb. Nearly all of the culturally significant herbs that Kilat
recognised (80 per cent) were medicinal species.
CULTURAL SIGNIFICANCE RESULTS

Both Udhi and Kilat provided basic labels for plants that did not have cultural
significance, material or otherwise. Nevertheless, for both informants, these
‘useless’ taxa represented a small but markedly consistent proportion of their
total recognised species. For Udhi, 87.9 per cent (51 of 58) of the species that he
recognised had cultural significance. For Kilat, 88.7 per cent (164 of 185) of the
species had cultural significance. Thus, for both the Penan and Dusun, cultural
significance and plant salience appear to be tightly linked (see Hunn 1982).
Closer examination of what constitutes cultural significance for these informants
underscores the dominant role of material utility. In Table 11.5, cultural significance
is divided into eight categories. Six of these are materially useful groupings, such as
‘food’ and ‘medicine’, whereas two of these, ‘magic’ and ‘avoidance’, do not fit into
a simple utility framework. Importantly, Udhi did not recognise plants in either of
these latter two categories. All of the culturally significant plant taxa he recognised
were materially useful. Of the plants that Kilat recognised, 4.9 per cent were
‘avoidance’ and 6.7 per cent were ‘magical’. The named avoidance taxa were mostly
rangas (dermatitis) species, meaning that they are known to cause rashes if touched.
Magical plants, on the other hand, were used (or avoided) for a variety of reasons.
Some were believed to enhance rice harvest, some were used in divination
ceremonies, and some were used to keep snakes away from dwellings. Others were
not used, per se, but were perceived to be jinx species (sisil). These are plants that
should generally be avoided or that should not be used to fashion snares. When the
magical plants that are materially useful (e.g., in ceremonies or divination) are
281
Table 11.5. Utility Functions of Significant Plant Species for Dusun and Penan
Cultural Significance Number of Taxa Percentage of Total Dusun Total:

Taxa/Cultural Penan Total
Penan Total-51 Dusun Total-164 Significance Category
Species Species
Penan Dusun Penan Dusun
Avoidance Species 0 8 0 4.9 NA
Craft 7 24 13.7 14.6 3.4:1
Food/Cooking Oil 20 29 39.2 17.7 1.5:1
Fuel 13 7 25.5 4.3 0.5:1
Insecticide/Piscicide 1 8 2.0 4.9 8:1
Magic 0 11 0 6.7 NA
Medicine 1 27 2.0 16.5 27:1
Snares/Blowpipe 2 13 3.9 7.9 6.5:1
Wood for Permanent or 10 71 19.6 43.3 7.1:1
Temporary Shelters
Total 54 198 106.0 120.8 NA
No Cultural Significance 7 21 NA NA 3:1
added to the other useful categories, species salience for Kilat is similar to that of
Udhi. In this case, only 11 culturally significant taxa, or 6.7 per cent, are not
materially useful in any sense. In both cases, material value and cultural significance
are nearly synonymous.
In terms of total number of taxa, Kilat recognised more species than Udhi in
almost every category of cultural significance. At the high end was ‘medicine’, for
which Kilat recognised 27 times more species than Udhi. This was followed closely
by ‘insecticide/piscicide’ and ‘wood for structures’, for which Kilat recognised 8.1
and 7.1 times more species than Udhi, respectively. At the low end was the ‘food’
category, for which Kilat recognised 1.5 times more species, and the ‘fuel’ (mostly
firewood) category, in which Udhi recognised the value of nearly twice as many
species as Kilat.
Examination of the raw numbers of species per category is particularly revealing.
Three of these categories – medicine, craft, and wood – resolve much of the disparity
in quantitative ethnobotanical knowledge maintained by these two informants.
Kilat identified a total of 135 species in these three material categories, compared
to 20 species for Udhi. For Kilat, these categories encompassed 82.3 per cent of his
culturally significant species; for Udhi, these covered 39.2 per cent of his culturally
significant species.
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Penan Ethnobotany
DISCUSSION
The ethnobotanical data provided by these informants strongly support
Brown’s (1985), Berlin’s (1992), and Hunn and French’s (1984) prediction
that cultivating societies maintain larger plant lexicons, and thus a greater
breadth of ethnobotanical knowledge, than hunter-gatherer groups. These
figures are particularly revealing since they were drawn exclusively from old-
growth forest habitat and involve only native, uncultivated species. Thus,
these differing knowledge profiles have no relation with the plethora of plant
varieties that accompany the adoption of a swidden cultivation regime (see Chin
1985, Christensen and Mertz 1993, Lian 1987). Nor apparently is increased
ethnobotanical knowledge a result of simply heightened curiosity of the floristic
landscape, since the vast majority of culturally significant species for both groups
are materially useful. Rather, it appears that the subsistence niches associated
with foraging versus farming present functionally different necessities about
plant knowledge, and that these differences are translated into sharply divergent
paths of ethnobotanical knowledge acquisition and retention.
Most of this variation in total number of known plant species is derived from
differences in material culture, especially wood and fibre for construction and
crafts. Permanent settlement is accompanied by a dramatic growth in quantity and
durability of possessions, and most of these items are fashioned from plants.
For example, longhouse construction entails a detailed understanding of timber
properties, such as resiliency to long-term wear, weather, and insect damage.
As can be seen in Table 11.2, the Dusun incorporate this understanding into their
choices of tree species for different purposes, such as ceiling beams, floors, walls,
roofs, verandas, and supporting poles. These are areas of knowledge that have no
relevance to nomadic hunter-gatherers and, given the total absence of these features
from Table 11.1, have not been translated into the Penan’s plant knowledge. Prior
to settlement, the Penan had neither the capacity to transport nor the need to
possess bulky musical instruments, fish traps and animal snares, tools for swidden
preparation and planting, materials for rice harvest and storage, toys, and other
material goods that are inconsistent with a foraging existence. As in the case of
most heavy construction materials, these items are completely absent from the
Penan’s plant list. It appears then, for the Penan and Dusun, that settlement and
farming are associated with a florescence of material culture, and this is necessarily
accompanied by a significantly enhanced understanding of the old growth flora.
Brown (1985) suggested that permanent settlement and increased population
density would likely lead to greater risk of illness and, in turn, a keener understanding
283
of the medicinal properties of plants. The data above appear to support this idea.
There is, unfortunately, no information available on illness profiles among the
Eastern Penan or the Dusun prior to this century. Thus, any conclusions regarding
differential exposure and response to diseases must be considered speculative.
Nevertheless, in one local study, Zulueta (1956) determined that nomadic Penan in
Sarawak suffered significantly lower rates of malarial-derived splenic enlargement
and parasites than neighbouring cultivating groups that occupy similar habitats.
He also noted that infection rates were higher among Penan groups that had settled
as opposed to those that had remained nomadic. This at least suggests that
settlement is associated with enhanced risk of illness in this area (for Africa, see
Kent and Dunn 1996).
Further clues are provided by the Dusun and Penan’s own accounts of disease
and treatment. The Dusun, for example, recognised and treated a broad array of
medical problems in the past. These ranged from life threatening ailments, such as
heart, liver, respiratory, and reproductive problems, to everyday ailments, such as
diarrhoea, headaches, fevers, oral blisters, rheumatism, vertigo, worms, and blemishes,
to name only a few. They responded, in turn, by developing a large pharmacopoeia
of medicinal plants and associated healing formulas (Voeks and Nyawa 2001). The
Penan at Sukang, on the other hand, report that they suffered from a limited suite
of illnesses prior to settlement. These included stomachaches, coughs, eye infections,
snake bites, superficial wounds, and skin problems. They also suggest that their
plant pharmacopoeia was modest as well, with at most 20 healing species.
The contrast in the health and healing systems of these two groups is likewise
manifest in their views of magic and the spirit world. The Dusun, on the one hand,
retain an elaborate ethnomedical system wherein cosmology and etiology are tightly
linked (Antaran 1993). Aside from their general healing pharmacopoeia, the Dusun
draw on the knowledge of specialised shamans who orchestrate healing activities,
divination ceremonies, spirit possession, and magical rituals. As in most traditional
societies, Dusun medical problems are often the result of transgressions against the
spiritual realm (see Voeks 1997: 69–114). Thus, in order to maintain a level of
equilibrium with the spiritual world, the Dusun respect a range of prohibitions,
including bad-luck (jinx) plants. They also attempt to protect their crops by magical
means, again employing specific plant taxa. Several of these taboo or magical plants
appeared in this plant census, and thus augmented their list of labelled species
(Table 11.2).
The Penan at Sukang, on the other hand, maintain an ethnomedical system
that is limited both in scope and substance. Unlike the elaborate cosmology of
neighbouring cultivators, the spirit world of the Penan is generic and poorly defined.
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Penan Ethnobotany
They recognise the role of spiritual transgression in disease etiology, but they are
relatively lax in respect to taboo violation and propitiation (Voeks and Sercombe
2000). As a result, the Penan at Sukang have assigned neither spiritual nor magical
properties to any specific taxa. This, in turn, is reflected in their ethnobotanical
lexicon, which is wholly lacking in species possessing these occult powers.
Brown’s (1985) and Hunn and French’s (1984) prediction that cultivators
maintain a more extensive inventory of food sources than foragers appears to
be supported by the plot census results as well. The Penan informant recognised
20 species that supply food of some sort, including fruit, vegetable oil, sago flour,
and palm heart. The Dusun informant recognised a total of 29 esculent species,
covering roughly the same range of uses. The Penan informant thus perceived the
food value of 45 per cent less species than his cultivating counterpart. On the other
hand, it should be noted that the 20 Penan edible species represent 39 per cent of
Udhi’s total list of culturally significant species. The 29 Dusun food plants, on the
other hand, represent a mere 18 per cent of Kilat’s culturally significant taxa. Thus,
although quantitatively small, the Penan food list constitutes a much greater share
of total ethnobotanical knowledge than that of the Dusun.
In spite of these differences in edible-plant perception, the role of famine as a
driving force in the differential acquisition of wild food knowledge, at least in this
region, is far from clear (see Voeks 1999). In the case of the Penan and Dusun, for
example, there is no direct evidence of serious famine, either in the past or in recent
times. Nor does the climatic record point to periods of extended crop failure (Becker
1992). Annual droughts are of relatively short duration, and Brunei is only
marginally affected by the devastating El Niño-related droughts and conflagrations
that desiccated other parts of Borneo (Goldammer and Seibert 1990, Walsh 1996).
Thus, the case for environmentally induced famine, at least in this region, appears
relatively weak.
The notion that foragers in this region are somehow less subject to food shortage
than cultivators is also problematic. Southeast Asia’s Dipterocarp forests are
renowned for their mast-fruiting characteristics, with years of little or no flower and
fruit production punctuated by the infrequent bumper crop (Ashton et al. 1988,
Toy 1991). This mast-fruiting phenology necessarily places stress on a society whose
subsistence is derived solely from collection. Moreover, fruit and seed shortage
during off years is accompanied by the fluctuating population level of Bearded pig,
the Penan’s preferred protein and fat source, which appears to rise and fall with the
condition of the fruit crop (Dove 1993b). Thus, complete dependence on plant and
animal extraction, even under favourable conditions, is probably as precarious a
subsistence strategy as that maintained by groups that depend on cultivated crops.
285
Finally, it should be noted that several authors have seriously questioned the
capacity of tropical forests to sustain populations of human foragers on a permanent
basis (Bailey et al. 1989, Headland 1987). According to this view, hunter-gatherer
subsistence in these ‘biological deserts’ is possible only if food can be acquired
through trade from sedentary cultivators. In principle, this limited carrying capacity
should have historically excluded foraging as a subsistence mode in tropical forests
until the arrival of cultivating societies. Although more recent work has cast doubt
on the validity of this hypothesis (see Bellwood 1993, Brosius 1991a, Roosevelt
1997), it at least casts doubt on the notion that tropical forests are somehow less
precarious sources of sustenance for foragers than for farmers.
PENAN ETHNOBOTANY IN TRANSITION

The Penan at Sukang, as elsewhere in Borneo, are in a rapid state of economic and
cultural flux (Sercombe 1996a; see also Cleary and Eaton 1992: 175–189, Sellato
1994a: 163–214). Although they continue to depend more on native forest resources
than cultivating societies, there are very few Penan groups that have not settled and
at least attempted to adopt small-scale cultivation techniques (Langub 1996a). How
these changes will affect the Penan’s unique relationship with nature is open to
conjecture. However, two processes are clearly indicated. First, the Penan may well
witness an expansion of their plant lexicon. New plant names and uses are likely
to be incorporated. Much of this will derive from the simple action of permanent
settlement. As noted earlier, this process is associated with an array of novel, mostly
material necessities. Lumber species and rice varieties would seem to be at the top
of the list. Udhi noted, for example, that eight of the ten tree species now used to
construct dwellings were not traditionally employed by the Penan. He stated that
the use of these species had been learned from cultivating groups (especially the
Dusun and Iban) in the process of his group’s permanent settlement in Sukang.
It is also likely that the Penan will acquire a hitherto unknown appreciation for
herbaceous plants, especially weedy invaders, which represent constant companions
of cultivators. Overall, then, the Penan are likely to significantly amplify their
knowledge of materially useful (or harmful) plant species.
On the other hand, it needs to be remembered that ethnobotanical erosion is
increasingly affecting small-scale agricultural societies inside and outside of Borneo.
The combined forces of acculturation, deforestation, and globalisation are associated
with rapidly declining interest in and knowledge of plants and plant uses. Thus,
while the Penan slowly assimilate the ethnobotanical skills of their cultivating
neighbours, these same groups are for the most part quickly and purposely
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Penan Ethnobotany
abandoning their own plant knowledge. Cultivar variety, increasingly subject to

market pressure, is being replaced by monoculture (Lian 1987). For forest healers,
the long-established cognitive link between people and medicinal plants is broken,
as Western medicine and monotheistic religion expand their influence. Healers are
frequently elderly, and the younger generation is unwilling or unable to serve as the
next receptacles of collective oral tradition (Plotkin 1988). The result is that any
efforts by the Penan to assimilate the ethnobotanical expertise of neighbouring
cultivating groups is likely to be hindered by their own wholesale abandonment of
plant knowledge.
CONCLUSIONS
Brown (1985), Berlin (1992), and Hunn and French (1984) have suggested
that traditional societies that pursue a primarily foraging subsistence strategy
maintain significantly smaller lexicons of labelled plants than the small-scale
cultivators. In addition to lack of familiarity with domesticated plants, foragers
are thought to be less prone to food shortage and disease than their cultivating
counterparts. This, it has been proposed, has led to a relatively limited breadth
of ethnobotanical knowledge concerning famine foods and medicinal species
among hunter-gatherer groups.
I tested this hypothesis by means of a plot-based comparison of ethnobotanical
knowledge between a foraging and a cultivating group – the Penan and the Dusun
of Brunei Darussalam. In each case, a knowledgeable informant from each group
was asked to identify names and cultural significance for plants in a 1-ha old-
growth, mixed Dipterocarp forest.
The results for the most part support the hypothesis. The Penan informant
provided names and cultural significance for a smaller number of species than the
Dusun informant. The Penan supplied 45 basic labels for plants in the plot, which
were distributed among 58 species. The Dusun informant identified 84 basic plant
names distributed among 185 different species. Overall, the Dusun identified
2.3 times more culturally significant plant families, 2.2 times more genera, and
3.2 times more species. The Dusun likewise recognised roughly three times as
many trees, treelets, and shrubs as the Penan. In addition, 8.4 per cent of the species
recognised by the Dusun informant were herbaceous, whereas the Penan informant
did not recognise or ascribe cultural significance to a single herb. Furthermore, the
species recognised by these informants included only 21 species in common,
suggesting that this forest represents a distinctly different resource base and lexical
domain for the Penan and Dusun.
287
Cultural significance and plant salience appear to be nearly synonymous for

these two groups. The Penan and Dusun attributed cultural significance, either
material or otherwise, to 87.9 per cent and 88.7 per cent, respectively, of the species
for which they maintained labels. Cultural significance and material value were
likewise highly associated. All of the culturally significant plants recognised by the
Penan had material value, and only 6.7 per cent of the Dusun’s culturally significant
taxa were not materially useful in any way.
In terms of raw numbers of culturally significant species, wood, craft, and
medicine resolve much of the disparity in quantitative ethnobotanical knowledge
maintained by these two informants. The Dusun informant identified a total of
135 species in these three material categories, compared to 20 species for the Penan.
Wood and fibre for construction and crafts, much of which is associated with
permanent settlement, account for most of this difference. Settlement, increasing
population density, and higher likelihood of contracting disease appear to be
significant factors in plant knowledge acquisition and retention. In this case, the
Dusun informant recognised 27 times more medicinal species than the Penan.
Unlike the farming Dusun, the Penan appear neither to possess a large pharmacopoeia
of medicinal species, nor to have ascribed magical properties to specific taxa. Finally,
although there were significant differences between these two informants in terms
of recognition of esculent species, the argument for famine-induced variance in
food plant knowledge does not seem compelling.
Penan hunter-gatherers and Dusun cultivators occupy essentially the same
floristic landscape. They nevertheless exhibit distinct differences in their knowledge
of the plant realm. Most of this variation appears to be a consequence of permanent
settlement, particularly expanded material culture and illness. As a result, the
Dusun lexically encode and materially exploit a much broader spectrum of their
available plant resources than do the Penan.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This project benefited greatly from the assistance of Peter Sercombe and Samhan
Nyawa. I also thank the Biology Department of the Universiti Brunei Darussalam,
especially Peter Becker, for orientation and use of the enumerated plot. Determinations
would not have been possible without the assistance provided by the Brunei Forestry
Herbarium, especially Idris M. Said and Joffre H. Ali Ahmad. Kelly Donovan
kindly produced the map (Map 10.1). Field research was funded by a grant from
the National Geographic Society, Research and Exploration Division. Finally, I am
grateful to Udhi anak Kutok and the late Kilat bin Kilah for sharing their profound
knowledge of the forest.
288
Chapter 12
PRIOR TRANSCRIPTS, DIVERGENT

PATHS: RESISTANCE AND
ACQUIESCENCE TO LOGGING IN
SARAWAK, EAST MALAYSIA
By J. Peter Brosius
Abstract: Since 1987, Penan foragers in Sarawak, East Malaysia, have resisted the
incursions of timber companies by the erection of blockades and have become the focus
of an international environmental campaign. Significantly, however, not all Penan
have participated in this movement. While Eastern Penan have engaged in acts of
resistance, Western Penan have been conspicuously acquiescent to the activities of
logging companies. This article represents an attempt to account for the differential
response of Eastern and Western Penan to deforestation. Three factors are considered:
(1) the contemporary political context; (2) the historical context in which these two
societies have existed; and (3) the nature of social relations characteristic of these
two populations. Explication of how the political, historical, and social contexts have
produced the contrastive responses of Eastern and Western Penan to logging is seen to
have several implications for theorising structures of domination.
INTRODUCTION
In 1987, there was an uprising of sorts in the remote interior headwaters of
Sarawak, East Malaysia, on the island of Borneo. In March of that year, Penan
289
hunter-gatherers in the Baram and Limbang Districts of Sarawak suddenly

erected more than a dozen blockades against logging companies. Since that time,
scores of Penan have been arrested for resisting the activities of these companies
by erecting more blockades and engaging in other acts of civil disobedience.
In doing so, they have achieved a great deal of international renown among
environmentalists, indigenous rights activists, and the Euro-American public at
large. Their story has received broad international media coverage, and scores
of celebrities, from Al Gore and musician Jerry Garcia to Prince Charles, have
spoken out on their behalf. The Malaysian government has responded to these
efforts with a vigorous media campaign of its own and, in the process, has come to
play an increasingly visible role as a critic of what are portrayed as neo-colonialist
attempts at control over environmental affairs in the South.
Recently I have been examining the international campaign that emerged
around the Penan issue in the late 1980s.1 In a series of interviews with European
and American environmentalists, Penan resistance to logging was repeatedly
cited as an important influence in the growth of movements promoting rainforest
preservation and indigenous rights. Virtually everyone describes the Penan as
exemplars of how an indigenous people can assert control over their own destiny
and, in the process, halt the loss of global biodiversity. In short, the Penan have
become an icon of resistance for environmentalists worldwide.
In the international campaign waged on their behalf, environmental groups
have made numerous statements about the Penan. Yet for all the attention that
this issue has received, both in the context of campaigns by nongovernmental
organisations and in the media, one key fact has been consistently overlooked:
not all Penan have resisted logging. Many in fact have acquiesced quite readily,
and a number even appear to favour logging. Whether we focus on the causes or
the dynamics of resistance, it would seem that an examination of those who have
not erected blockades can be as instructive as an examination of those who have.
In the case of Penan, there is a clear pattern defining those who have resisted and
those who have acquiesced. Elucidating this pattern requires that we first establish
a basic ethnographic distinction.
The Penan of Sarawak can be divided into two distinct populations:
Eastern and Western Penan [Needham, in this volume].2 Eastern Penan
comprise all those groups living to the north and east of the Baram river, in
the Tutoh, Patah, Pelutan, Apoh, upper Akah, Selaan, Selungo, and upper
Baram Rivers, as well as in the upper Limbang watershed. Western Penan
include all those in the Belaga District, as well as communities in the Silat
River watershed, and at Leng Beku (see Map 12.1). Though sharing many
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Prior Transcripts, Divergent Paths
characteristics, these two populations display a number of significant

differences with respect to subsistence technology, settlement patterns, social
organisation, and in the tenor of social relationships.3 Eastern Penan conform
much more closely to the pattern that anthropologists take to be typical of
band-level societies, but Western Penan depart from this pattern in striking
ways. Though these two populations speak mutually intelligible sub-dialects
of the same language and recognise each other as Penan, they nevertheless
consider themselves to be of only very distant ancestry. They have little contact
with each other and almost never intermarry. In short, these are two discrete
populations, with distinctive adaptations, histories, and social norms. These
differences have important implications for the way they have responded
to logging. Almost without exception, all the communities that have
resisted logging with blockades have been Eastern Penan. Western Penan,
by comparison, have been conspicuously acquiescent to, even willing
participants in, the activities of logging companies. This divergent pattern
of resistance and acquiescence is striking in its clarity.
Map 12.1. Distribution of Eastern and Western Penan in Sarawak
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The Malaysian government has attributed the occurrence of Eastern Penan

resistance to logging to the influence of Western environmentalists. While it is
undeniable that environmentalist influence has played some role in recent events,
attributing Eastern Penan resistance to logging entirely to this cause is much too
simplistic. Among other things, it ignores the forms that civil disobedience
have taken, the persistence of unrest; and it does not answer the question of why
Eastern Penan have been so influenced by environmentalists in the first place.
An adequate account of Eastern Penan resistance must consider the social and
historical context in which that resistance occurs and which precedes the
much more recent influence of environmentalists. Further, our understanding of
the Eastern Penan response to logging can be enhanced by examining the
contrastive case of Western Penan. As such, I consider a set of three factors which
elucidate the contrastive patterns of Eastern and Western Penan response to
logging: These factors reflect differences between the two in their contemporary
political contexts, particularly in recent efforts to organise Penan; in the historical
contexts in which these two societies have existed, particularly with respect to
their relations with colonial authorities; and in the nature of social relations
characteristic of these two populations.
The value of the present enquiry lies not in the degree to which it allows us to
determine the true causes of Eastern Penan resistance but in elucidating what
these points of contrast between Eastern and Western Penan might reveal about
the dynamic social and historical contours of resistance and acquiescence. In an
important sense, then, this discussion represents an attempt to address what
Ortner (1995) has termed ‘the problem of ethnographic refusal’. According to
Ortner, ‘Resistance studies are thin because they are ethnographically thin: thin
on the internal politics of dominated groups, thin on the cultural richness of
those groups, thin on the subjectivity – the intentions, desires, fears, projects – of
the actors engaged in these dramas’ (1995: 190). She suggests that, contrary to
the impression conveyed in most contemporary analyses of domination and
resistance, ‘there is never a single, unitary, subordinate’ (1995: 175). She argues
for greater attention to the ‘psychological and socio-political complexity of
resistance and non-resistance’ (1995: 176) and urges us to recognise that
subalterns have ‘an authentic, and not merely reactive politics’ (1995: 180).
In the following discussion, I first examine the history of logging in interior
Sarawak and its impact on Penan. Next, I consider the patterns of resistance
and acquiescence that have characterised Eastern and Western Penan responses to
logging. I then examine how each of these three factors cited above have contributed
to the divergent responses of these two populations. Finally, I consider some of the
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implications of the contrast between Eastern and Western Penan responses to logging
for theorising domination, resistance, and acquiescence, with particular reference to
Scott’s distinction (1990) between hidden transcripts and public transcripts.
THE IMPACT OF LOGGING

Despite centuries of swidden farming along the major rivers by indigenous
peoples, upland forests in the Belaga, Baram, and Limbang Districts of Sarawak
have remained largely undisturbed.4 However, with the advent of large-scale
mechanised logging in recent years, the areas covered by primary forests have
been reduced drastically, and deforestation continues at a rapid rate. Sarawak
is today a major supplier of tropical hardwood on international markets, and
is currently experiencing one of the highest rates of deforestation in the world.
The speed with which logging has progressed is remarkable. Though timber
companies only began to penetrate the interior in the late 1970s, by the 1980s
they had moved into areas occupied by Penan and have now nearly reached the
Indonesian border in several places.
Logging has a dramatic effect on the lives of Penan, both nomadic and settled.5
The most immediate effect is on the forest resources which they depend upon for
subsistence and trade. Though most Penan today are settled, they continue to
exploit the forest. Among their most frequent complaint is bulldozers have
uprooted the sago palms (Eugeissona utilis) which form the basis of Penan
traditional subsistence. This is indeed a common occurrence, in part, because
the greatest concentration of sago exist on steep ridges and slopes where roads are
built and where slides from this construction occur. Penan also complain that
the trees from which they get fruit and blowdart poison are felled and that as
often as not the trunks of those trees are taken. Yet another frequent objection to
logging is that the activities and people associated with logging scare off game
because logging activities are noisy, because downed trees can no longer provide
forage for pigs and other types of game, and because loggers use shotguns when
hunting. Penan are concerned about river siltation, because it kills fish and makes
it difficult to find clean water for drinking or to process sago and they are also
concerned about the destruction of rattan, which diminishes their ability to
participate in the cash economy. Finally, one of the most common complaints of
Penan is that graves are obliterated, a concern of all Penan but voiced with
particular frequency by nomadic Eastern Penan, who almost always bury their
dead where they construct their camps – on the very ridges where logging roads
are constructed.
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For Penan – Eastern and Western, nomadic and settled – logging means
hunger. But it means more than this. Logging completely alters a landscape
with which Penan have a deeply historical relationship. What is of as much
concern to the Penan as the privation caused by logging is the way in which
logging has altered the landscape in which they live. Though it gives the
appearance of a complete wilderness, the landscape is imbued with biographical
and cultural significance, a repository for the memory of past events, and thus
a vast mnemonic representation of social relationships and society. There exists
a strong coherence between the physical landscape, history, genealogy, and the
identities of individuals and communities. With logging, the cultural density
of the landscape – all those sites with biographical, social, and historical
significance – is obliterated. Thus, logging not only undermines the basis of
Penan subsistence but also destroys the very things that are iconic of their
existence as a society.
When Penan talk about logging, they focus not only on the tangible effects
of logging – hunger, river siltation, the destruction of graves, and the obliteration
of familiar places – but also on those that are less tangible: the sounds and
smells of the forest, coolness and heat, sunlight, vegetation and mud. The words
and images they employ are contrastive and tinged with nostalgia: what the
forest was like before and after logging. One nomadic Eastern Penan said that
once their land is finished, they will have a life of doing nothing but sitting
under gogong, a large-leafed tree that grows along logging roads and is associated
with bright sunlight, heat, and dust: an image, for Penan, of utter desolation.
Among the most poignant expressions of concern about logging are those
that refer to sound. Associated with this form of rhetoric is a theme of contrast
and separation: that it is appropriate to hear some things in the forest and
appropriate to hear other things downriver. One man stated that in the forest it
was good to hear the call of the Argus pheasant but not the crowing of chickens
owned by loggers; it was good to hear the creaking of trees but not the whining
of chainsaws. In statements about the appropriateness of separation, Eastern
Penan state that they do not interfere in the lives of downriver people and do not
bring their sounds to them; likewise it is inappropriate that downriver people
should bring their sounds to the forest.
FORMS OF RESISTANCE AND ACQUIESCENCE

While most recent media attention has been on one small group of Penan – those
nomadic Eastern Penan groups in the Tutoh and Limbang watersheds – logging
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affects nearly every Penan community. Whether they are actively engaged in
resistance or appear to acquiesce, Eastern and Western Penan everywhere are,
with but a few notable exceptions, opposed to logging. The subject of logging
is one that is raised constantly in every Penan community. In particular, Penan
narratives tell of confrontations between themselves and company representatives
or state authorities, and recount the arguments which they put forth: why a
particular watershed belongs to them, why bulldozers have no place in the forest,
why surveyors should not mark trees, why they decided to blockade, why they
should not be blamed for those blockades, and who they believe to be responsible
for the present unrest. Logging is, for Penan, an all-consuming topic.
Over and above their feelings about deforestation itself, the Penan response to
logging is a product of the way they perceive themselves to have been treated by
those with an interest in its continuation: camp managers, police, politicians,
and others.6 In short, Penan feelings about logging as a destructive activity which
directly affects their livelihoods must be distinguished from their feelings about
those who are carrying it out. Both Eastern and Western Penan feel that they are
looked down upon, ignored, and treated unjustly. Consistently their response has
been to try to familiarise themselves and their situation, both to those representing
timber interests and to environmentalists. Most often, they do so in the form of
analogies which they feel will express their feelings in a way intelligible to
outsiders, comparing the forest to a warehouse, a shop, or a bank; contrasting
their way of life with that of civil servants who must merely go to their offices to
make a living; and comparing the act of felling the forest to driving a bulldozer
through the middle of someone’s house.
Penan recognise that their efforts to explain their situation have had little effect,
and they find it inconceivable that their concerns are so completely disregarded.
They hold two parties responsible for the present situation: logging companies and
the government. In fact, they often conflate these, assuming either that they are a
single entity or that logging companies are working under direct instructions from
the government.7 As evidence of this, Penan cite the fact that when they have
blockaded logging roads, it is the police who come to dismantle their blockades.8
Penan assume that most government officials are acting as agents of logging
companies for purely personal gain.9 To the extent that they recognise the distinction
between the government and logging companies, Penan believe that the government
does not listen to them and supports only logging companies because it looks down
on them. While I was with the Penan, I repeatedly heard statements such as: ‘When
they look into our eyes, they see the eyes of a monkey, the eyes of a dog’; ‘They think
we have tails’; and ‘They look at us as they look at dog shit’.10
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In short, Penan are responding not only to logging as an activity that directly
affects their lives but also to the agents of logging. Overwhelmingly, the mood
expressed by Penan is that of frustration because those agents are not listening to
them. This applies to virtually all Penan: Eastern and Western, nomadic and
settled. Despite cultural and acculturative diversity, the Penan perspective on
current affairs is remarkably uniform: Penan are unvaryingly opposed to logging
and to the way they feel they are treated by its agents. Notwithstanding this
similarity in their perspectives, the ways in which Eastern and Western Penan
have responded to logging contrast markedly.
The Eastern Penan response to logging has been the aforementioned erection
of blockades. Before constructing these in 1987, Eastern Penan made numerous
efforts to air their grievances to government officials. At last they felt compelled
to issue a warning that if their grievances were not addressed, they would take
some unspecified action. Having exhausted all other avenues of response, blockades
were erected. These remained in place for some eight months before being torn
down. Though scores of Penan were arrested in this first wave of blockades and in
subsequent actions, the government were frustrated by the fact that they were
unable to prosecute: there was no law on the books making blockades illegal. This
was remedied in 1988 when the new Forest Ordinance was passed. Blockades,
however, not only did not end, but continued to spread into other areas occupied
by Eastern Penan through the late 1980s and early 1990s. When these blockades
were erected, sometimes as many as several hundred Eastern Penan at a time,
many from distant groups, flocked to these blockade sites to lend support.
Inevitably these blockades were broken up, and those present were arrested and
incarcerated. After several weeks, they were allowed to return to their communities
to await trial. To date, most trials have proved inconclusive. The last major Penan
blockade, in the Ba Mubui area of the Baram District, began in March 1993 and
was forcefully broken up by a police field force in September 1993.11 In November
1993, the Dewan Undangan Negeri (State Legislative Assembly) passed a
draconian new forest ordinance that makes it not only illegal to blockade logging
roads, but presumes that those apprehended near such blockades are guilty. It is
this scenario of blockades by indigenous rainforest peoples clad in loin cloths and
carrying blowpipes – and the counter-images of their arrest – that has proved so
compelling for environmentalists. What is most striking about these blockades is
the degree to which they have been characterised by a sense of unity among bands
of people who have no history of unified political action.
In describing why they have erected blockades, Eastern Penan provide one
reason more than any other: they feel that their voices are not being heard.12
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Among the most common refrains among contemporary Eastern Penan is that
‘the government does not hear what we say’. Their expressions of frustration about
this convey utter exasperation. One man stated that even if his mouth ripped
open all the way down to his feet, company people would still not hear what he
said to them. Another said that talking to representatives of timber companies or
the government was like talking to a drawing: they neither hear nor respond.
When Eastern Penan describe their actions, they say that these blockades are their
only recourse, a last resort. They see the government’s refusal to acknowledge the
validity of their complaints as evidence of the legitimacy of their actions.13
Eastern Penan are very concerned to avoid any implication that they are at
fault in their decisions to act. They stress that they are not blocking anyone else’s
land, but only their own. When they talk to the government or companies, they
say that they sit back and wait for some result, something that they are willing to
do repeatedly. They portray themselves as patient, slow to anger, and unwilling
to act precipitously. From their perspective, they are entirely without fault when
they take action because they patiently make numerous good faith attempts at
dialogue. They are driven to do the blockades by the government’s inaction.
Such statements are intended to exonerate Eastern Penan from blame and
definitively lay it at the feet of companies and the government. The fact that the
government uses police and that companies must resort to fear tactics and
gangsters only confirms the rightness of their cause for Penan.
The Western Penan response to the activities of logging companies contrasts
markedly with that of Eastern Penan. Though Western Penan were in fact the
first to resist logging companies, they have not responded with blockades.14 To
the degree that they have undertaken acts of resistance, they have done so for very
different reasons. What has most marked the Western Penan response to logging
has been their cooperation with timber companies, which is based on their desire
to benefit materially from those companies. Though they are familiar with the
blockades that have occurred in the Baram area, Western Penan assume that they
are unable to do anything about the entry of logging companies into their areas,
and feel they have no other choice but to try to derive as much benefit as they can
from them. They are, in short, trying to make the best of what they view as a bad
– and inevitable – situation. The form this cooperation has taken is a willingness
to negotiate compensation packages and to work for companies.
Western Penan in most communities today receive several forms of
compensation from timber companies: a bulk sum compensation amount, a
monthly allowance, and special gifts on major holidays. The government provide
no guidelines for granting compensation, nor have they established any laws
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mandating it. Although companies initially resisted paying compensation to

local communities, they eventually came to accept it as a necessary business
expense, particularly after civil unrest began in the Baram District. When talking
to company managers today, they in fact seem anxious to provide compensation
packages to communities. Although anxious, bargaining is done by companies
on a community to community basis, and timber companies negotiate the least
costly packages they can afford. For local communities, the success of negotiations
is very much dependent on the insistence of individual headmen.
Western Penan headmen can be very insistent indeed. They are not at all
hesitant to argue forcefully with timber camp managers. In one recent case, the
headman of a Western Penan community travelled repeatedly to a timber camp
to collect compensation. Frustrated by the repeated failure of the company to
produce the compensation expected, he grabbed the camp manager by the
ears, yelling that he must be deaf and should listen to what was being said to
him. On another occasion, the members of one Western Penan community
seized four bulldozers from a timber camp because a company would not provide
them with what they felt was sufficient compensation. Despite such acts of
apparent resistance, they are undertaken for very different reasons than Eastern
Penan blockades: not to exclude companies but to obtain whatever they can from
them. One more way in which Western Penan have cooperated with timber
companies has been by working for those companies, carrying out tasks such
as block surveys and bark removal. Though these are among the lowest paying
jobs available, Western Penan are nevertheless eager to take advantage of the
opportunities for cash income that such jobs provide.
Another characteristic of the Western Penan response to logging has been a
distinct lack of unity among communities. In fact, as logging has entered the
areas claimed by various communities, Western Penan have devoted as much
attention to undermining each other’s claims as they have responded to the
incursions of logging companies. The reasons for such antagonisms vary, but
they are often associated with conflicting claims over certain plots of land for
which communities are demanding compensation. Among many Western Penan
communities, there are long-standing disputes over rights to land. Even before
the advent of logging such disputes were a central feature of Western Penan
intercommunity relations. The entrance of logging companies has only
exacerbated an already existing situation. Disputes also occur with regard to
employment. Western Penan have repeatedly attempted to persuade companies
to deny employment to individuals from other communities, arguing that only
members of their own community have a right to employment within the areas
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to which they lay claim. In 1992, Western Penan from one community came
upon an empty forest camp being used by a survey crew which included members
of another Western Penan community. Upon finding this camp, they slashed all
the tins of rice, biscuits, and other supplies.
In examining the contrast in Eastern and Western Penan responses to logging,
it is important that this contrast not be overstated. Many Eastern Penan have
recently negotiated compensation packages with timber companies, and increasing
numbers have begun to work for them. This has led to some tension between
groups of Eastern Penan, particularly members of settled communities who are
working for companies, and nomadic groups on whose lands they are working.
Likewise, there have been several incidents in which Western Penan have resisted
timber companies in various ways. Clearly patterns of resistance and acquiescence
are still evolving. Penan not only respond to logging, timber companies and the
government have also responded to Penan. In an effort to isolate those groups
which are still resisting, timber companies are now more willing to work out
compensation packages, the State Legislative Assembly has passed the
aforementioned 1993 Forest Ordinance, and the police Special Branch has been
actively trying to undermine resistance by recruiting Penan informants and
disseminating disinformation. Among other things, this has had the effect of
convincing many Eastern Penan that logging is inevitable and resistance futile.
THE CONTEMPORARY POLITICAL CONTEXT:

ENVIRONMENTALISTS, ORGANIZERS, INSTIGATORS
Since blockades first began in the Baram and Limbang Districts in 1987, Malaysian
government officials have dismissed them as the product of foreign ‘instigators’.
This charge is repeated in any number of statements by government officials.
One official declared foreign ‘instigators’ to be ‘worse than communists’. Sarawak
Minister of Environment and Tourism, James Wong, has recently written that:
It is […] despicable for foreigners […] to enter into this country to instigate
and finance the local people to break the law and take the law into their own
hands by putting up road blockades and carrying out other illegal acts (Wong
1992: 33).
The rhetoric of instigation is thus used to portray Penan as misbehaving

children under foreign influence, deluded objects of pity to whom only sympathy
is due. Eastern Penan are well aware of the government’s rhetoric about the role
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of foreign instigators, and vigorously reject such assertions. In any number of

ways these Penan declare that decisions to blockade were made by themselves
alone. As one Eastern Penan explained, they blockade ‘because we know the
difficulties in our own land’, that is, they do not need outsiders to point this out
to them. Another woman, refuting the suggestion that orang putih (Bahasa
Malaysia, white person/people) had anything to do with their decision to
blockade, patted her stomach and said ‘This is our orang putih, our rajah’. Penan
assertions aside, if we wish to understand something of the contrast between
Eastern and Western Penan responses to logging, it is necessary that we consider
what role, if any, foreign involvement may have played in influencing Eastern
Penan to erect blockades. One of the most significant points of contrast in
this whole affair has been that Eastern Penan have been visited by numerous
Western environmental activists while, with a few exceptions, Western Penan
have not been.
Any account of resistance to logging in Sarawak must acknowledge the role of
Swiss artist Bruno Manser. In 1984, breaking off from a cave-exploring expedition
to which he was attached, Manser disappeared into the forest and took up residence
with a band of nomadic Eastern Penan in the upper Tutoh river area and
remained among various nomadic groups for some six and a half years. The story
of blockades and Manser are inextricably linked. More than any other single actor,
it is Manser who is most responsible for bringing the situation of the Penan to
world attention. Beginning in 1985, Manser began writing to a number of
environmental organisations. In a very short time reporters, film-makers, and
environmentalists began to seek him out in the forest. At the same time that
Manser was working to make the Penan’s situation known outside of Sarawak, he
was simultaneously engaged in organising the normally retiring Eastern Penan to
resist.15 Manser travelled extensively throughout the Baram and Limbang areas,
organising large meetings which were attended by representatives from numerous
communities. At these meetings, Penan representatives discussed cases of
harassment by timber company employees, the desirability of blockading, what
they should do if arrests occurred, and other such issues. The overall purpose of
these meetings was to gauge the degree to which Penan were of a common mind
and to persuade them to act in concert. By all accounts, Manser developed into a
very effective communicator: Penan remark often on the eloquence with which he
spoke. Several times they told me how, when they asked Manser whether it was
advisable for them to work for companies, he replied that for them to take timber
company money would be like holding feathers in their hands. At that point, they
would mimic Manser raising his cupped hands and blowing feathers away.
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The 1987 blockades, which brought a great deal of attention to the Penan,
resulted in the beginning of a concerted international campaign. The first Penan
blockades were established not long after the founding of the Rainforest Action
Network, which took on the issue of logging in Sarawak as one of its first projects.
Numerous other rainforest groups were also forming in Europe, the United
Kingdom, Australia, and Japan, in response to a growing awareness of the scale
of tropical deforestation. Penan became an icon of forest destruction for many of
these organisations.
As the Sarawak campaign accelerated, numerous individual environmentalists
attempted to visit Eastern Penan in order to document their plight for international
audiences. In their visits to Penan communities, these individuals frequently told
Penan of efforts made on their behalf in Europe, Australia, and the United States.
From the talks with Eastern Penan today, it is evident that the stories told to
them about outside efforts to support them, and indeed the very fact of visits by
foreign environmentalists, provided them with a strong sense that their own
efforts were legitimate.
Another important factor in the growth of resistance to logging among Penan
(and other indigenous communities in Sarawak) was the role played by the
Malaysian environmental organisation, Sahabat Alam Malaysia (SAM, Friends
of the Earth, Malaysia). SAM became instrumental not only in the worldwide
Sarawak campaign but also in supporting Penan (and others) at the local level.
Indeed, SAM had been active in supporting indigenous rights in Sarawak
since it opened an office in the upriver town of Marudi in 1982. A key figure for
Penan was SAM coordinator Harrison Ngau, himself a Kayan. Ngau became an
outspoken advocate of indigenous rights in Sarawak and was regarded by Penan
as their most reliable Malaysian defender. The SAM office in Marudi provided
something of a refuge for Penan. SAM representatives helped Penan draft letters
in an attempt to establish land claims, provided lawyers, and helped Penan with
material support at blockade sites. Of equal importance, SAM played a prominent
role in educating local people about their rights under the law. And, as with the
visits of foreign environmentalists, SAM support provided Penan with a reinforced
sense of the rightfulness of their actions.
Eventually, other organisations became involved in the Penan cause. SAM was
instrumental in the formation of the Sarawak Penan Association. Indigenous
activist Anderson Mutang formed the Sarawak Indigenous People’s Alliance
(SIPA), which provided a conduit for information and support to Penan involved
in civil disobedience.16 All the while still more foreign visitors – film crews,
travellers, environmentalists – continued to seek out Penan. Later I will discuss
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something of the background of Penan perceptions of these visitors. For now it is

sufficient to say that their mere presence (and in many cases it was indeed merely
a presence, since Penan describe numerous visits by persons with whom they were
unable to communicate) confirmed for them the legitimacy of their cause.
In contrast to the Baram and Limbang Districts, Penan in the Belaga District
have not been visited by foreign environmentalists to any significant degree.
Manser himself never visited Western Penan, nor has SAM had any significant
presence among them. One Western Penan from the Belaga District described to
me how he had met some people from SAM on a trip to the coastal town of Miri.
He described how they told him not to be afraid to stand up to timber companies
and that he should prevent them from destroying his land. This man had heard
of SAM but, in recalling this encounter, was vague about what they represented
and expressed uncertainty about whether they were good or bad. Another NGO,
the Institut Pengajaran Komuniti (Institute for Community Education), has had
some presence in the Belaga District but not among Penan. Where efforts to
organise Western Penan have been attempted, they have not been successful.
One Eastern Penan, who travelled to several Western Penan communities in the
Silat River to organise resistance to logging, described to me the strong frustration
he felt on that trip. He said that Penan Silat showed no interest in establishing
blockades, and that all they talked about was their fear of being arrested or
beaten up. In short, Western Penan have not been the subject of attention by
environmental or indigenous rights organisations in the way that Eastern Penan
have. In speaking to Western Penan about their response to logging, one hears
no reference to individual environmentalists or environmental organisations,
something which occurs with considerable frequency among Eastern Penan.
There are clearly significant differences in the efforts that have been made to
organise Eastern and Western Penan. The question is whether such efforts – and
the presence (or absence) of individuals who have promulgated them – can
alone account for the ways in which these two populations have responded to the
activities of timber companies. While it would be wrong to dismiss the influence
of external agents, it is equally wrong to assume that this alone accounts for
the contrast between resistance and acquiescence that we observe among Eastern
and Western Penan.
COLONIAL ENCOUNTERS
It is a so far unremarked fact that the historical contexts in which Eastern and
Western Penan existed, particularly with respect to their relations with colonial
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authorities, differed considerably. Penan historical narratives (both Eastern and

Western) are framed with reference to three main periods: The distant past,
before the establishment of colonial rule; the colonial period, including both the
Brooke period (1841–1946) and the British period (1946–1963), often conflated
because there was little change in the way Penan were administered;17 and the
post-1963 period when Sarawak joined Malaysia, recognised by Penan as marked
by Malay rule.18 Before considering the implications of this shared historical
paradigm, it is necessary to briefly consider the traditional place of Penan in the
central Bornean social and economic milieu.
From a regional perspective, hunter-gatherers such as the Penan have long
occupied a specific niche in the economies of central Borneo. They have been a
major source of forest products which are traded to Orang Ulu19 and thence to
the coast for consumption or export. The types of products collected have varied
through time. Camphor, jelutong (a type of latex), damar (a resin), and rhinoceros
horn have been the important trade products at various times in the past. Both
in the past and at present the Penan have been known for the fine woven rattan
mats and baskets which they produce. In exchange for these products, Penan
have received items such as metal, cloth, salt, and tobacco.
More than merely a system for the exchange of commodities, Penan relationships
with longhouse peoples were deeply embedded in the social and ethnic fabric of
interior Sarawak. The presence of a Penan band in an area meant access to forest
products and to the income generated by trade in those products. Longhouse
aristocrats were proprietary about ‘their’ Penan, and jealously guarded their
prerogatives to trade with certain groups. Various longhouses frequently competed
to monopolise their relationships with particular Penan bands. Historical records
detail numerous disputes brought to colonial authorities resulting from attempts
by longhouse aristocrats to lure Penan from one watershed to another. In short,
Penan were regarded by longhouse peoples as a form of wealth.
The relationship between longhouse people and neighbouring Penan was –
and is – highly paternalistic. Penan relied upon longhouse peoples to act as
mediators with the outside world, the conduit by which both information and
material goods from downriver reached them. This was a system maintained
both by Penan timidity and by indebtedness to longhouse patrons. Historical
accounts portray Penan as fearful of downriver society, a pattern that continues
to this day among both Eastern and Western Penan, but is particularly marked
among nomadic Eastern Penan. Too fearful to visit market centres themselves,
and thus ignorant of market prices, Penan were at a distinct disadvantage in their
relationships with longhouse traders.20 Virtually all historical accounts agree that
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goods were exchanged with Penan at usurious rates: One colonial officer reported
profits of 600–1,000 per cent (Ermen 1927: 185). At the same time, patrons
compelled Penan to work for them through the creation of debt.
When describing past relationships with longhouse peoples, and particularly
with reference to specific Orang Ulu aristocrats, both Eastern and Western Penan
use the word tagung (to take care of), and refer to being ‘held’. They evaluate these
relationships in either positive or negative terms, depending upon how these
aristocrats treated them. Penan historical narratives are filled with such descriptions.
If Penan felt that they were treated fairly, they were willing to go to some length
to maintain these relationships, even to the extent of moving great distances
to follow a longhouse that had moved. In other cases, relationships were
severed because Penan were dissatisfied with their trading partners. To make such
a change, Penan only needed to move to another watershed. In short, the continued
maintenance of such relationships was conditional on the perceived benevolence
of longhouse patrons. Thus, being tagung implied a benevolent relationship
and did not imply unconditional loyalty.
This was the situation into which colonial authorities inserted themselves
beginning in the late nineteenth century. From their earliest encounters with
Penan, Brooke regime officials in both the Baram and Belaga Districts voiced
concern about how Penan were exploited and expressed a desire to protect them.
In April 1883, a mere ten months after the Baram District was ceded to the
Brooke Raj, District Officer De Crespigny wrote of his plans to visit the Tutoh
River:
I hope to be able to spend a month or more in Tutow [sic] during the present
year, and I should like to bring here from Kabulu […] some of the civilised
Penans with their chief Tama Nideng, partly to explore, and partly to draw
together the numerous Penans in the multitudinous streams of the Tutow, with
a view of releasing them from the strange conditions of life under which they
exist and the slavish service which they owe to the mere sprinkling of Long Patas
and Batu Balaus [Orang Ulu communities] inhabiting Tutow (De Crespigny
1883: 37).
In 1912 Baram District Officer Douglas stated that:
Tama Saging and Tama Treng brought down the Tutau [sic] Punan tax.21 These
wild people complained of the way that Kayans, Kenyahs and Milanaus were
worrying them about their debts and trying to force them to come and live in
certain rivers near to them. I informed them that I would come upriver at the end
of the year and enquire into their grievances (Douglas 1912: 256).
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In July 1940, the Belaga District Officer commented that ‘Awang Sutoh says
Kayans are again still treating the Punans […] as their slaves, ordering them to
work for them and cheating them at trading, etc’.22 Despite the concern by
authorities in both the Belaga and Baram Districts that Penan were exploited,
the response to this state of affairs in each district differed.
In the Baram District, government-supervised trade meetings were established.
These meetings, called tamu, were begun in 1906 by Douglas. In a 1905 visit to
the upper Tutoh, Douglas reported that:
On the return journey I met Tama Treng and all the Tutau [sic] Penans at Long
Magoh and I made arrangements by which these wild people were not to be
persecuted by their Kayan and Kenyah creditors, who never give them any rest.
I told them that the Punans were all to meet once in 3 months at Long Lesat,
when they could exchange their rubber etc. for trade goods. The Punans seemed
very pleased with this arrangement and promised to carry it out faithfully
(Douglas 1906: 68).
These meetings were held at several mutually agreed upon places in the Baram
District three or four times a year. Penan brought their products to be weighed
in the presence of a government official and their value calculated. Once this was
completed, Penan could then barter with Kayan and Kenyah traders for the
goods they desired.
The explicit purpose of these meetings, reflected in numerous statements
from officials, was to protect Penan from exploitation. In 1930, for instance,
Hudden stated that ‘although rarely met with, these people are protected from
exploitation by regulations forbidding anyone to trade with them except in the
presence of a representative of Government’ (Hudden 1949: 110). Colonial
officials established strict regulations about contact and trade with Penan. One
colonial officer:
visited the Tutau [sic] in order to meet the Penans at Long Malinau and find out
which place they wish to tamu for trade purposes and then warn the Natives in
the Tutau and Apoh that whoever trades with these people outside the appointed
place will be heavily fined (Owen 1925: 85).
District reports reveal a constant effort to enforce these rules, as well as

frequent violations. Fines were assessed and government-appointed chiefs were
dismissed over infractions.
Trade was not the only point of these meetings. Government officials also
collected taxes from Penan and provided medical services. An important part of
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these meetings were dialogue sessions. Penan and government officials exchanged
news; officials informed Penan of pertinent information regarding government
activities and regulations; and Penan queried colonial officers about items of
news that they had heard. Penan were asked to report violations of trade rules
and were assured that violators would be punished.23 These trade meetings
became a central event in the lives of Penan in the Baram District. This institution
continued for some 70 years: the last tamu was held in 1976 (Langub 1984: 12).
An attempt made to revive them in the mid-1980s was unsuccessful.
Eastern Penan in the Baram District today recall these trade meetings with
great nostalgia. One nomadic Penan leader in the upper Tutoh fondly recalled
his participation in these meetings. He spoke of receiving great quantities of
tobacco, the provision of pig meat, being able to purchase shotguns, and sitting
together under lanterns talking and dancing until late at night in a mood of
relaxed joviality. Referring to what he perceived as the benevolence of colonial
authorities, another man, who was himself too young to have attended these
meetings, stated that when colonial authorities gave them shotguns at these
meetings, it was the same as if Penan had taken food directly from their hands.
Among the most common themes expressed in contemporary Eastern Penan
accounts of tamu are the messages of reassurance that colonial officers gave them.
Eastern Penan today recount how colonial officials regularly told them to bring
their problems to them if anyone bothered them. They recall being told not to
worry about various matters, and that the government would look after them
and protect them. Eastern Penan also recall being told that their lands were
reserved for them alone, and that they should report any attempts at entry by
others. Indeed, the colonial government did remove Brunei traders, Iban forest
product collectors, and others when their presence was reported.24 When talking
to Eastern Penan today, one senses that these meetings provided them with a
very real sense of reassurance that the government would look after their
interests.
The involvement of colonial officials in the lives of Western Penan in the
Belaga District contrasted markedly with their involvement in the lives of
Baram District Penan. Though the government was aware of the exploitation of
Penan by longhouse peoples in both regions, regular trade meetings were never
institutionalised in the Belaga District; and statements by District officials
convey a general impression that Penan in the Belaga District were visited much
less frequently than those in the Baram.25 District records do reveal several
attempts to establish trade meetings in Belaga,26 but they seem never to have
been instituted on a regular basis. Why this should have been the case is unclear.
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In 1936, the District Officer of the Kapit District (which at that time included
Belaga) stated that ‘some system of organised trading with the interior Punans is
desirable but it is difficult to see how it can be managed with the present
Kapit staff of two Native Officers, and no Government representative at Belaga
other than a village constable’ (Anonymous 1936: 226). More recently, a former
post-colonial administrative officer, noting that contact with Penan in the Belaga
District was rare, stated that ‘distance and isolation of one settlement from the
other make it impossible to organise barter trades between the Punans and local
traders under government supervision’ (Langub 1972a: 221). Such explanations
obscure more than they reveal. While Belaga District Penan were indeed quite
isolated, they were no more so than those in the Baram District. This contrast
between the Baram and Belaga Districts is particularly vexing given that many
government officers served in both Districts: it is reasonable to think that this
would have contributed to a consistent policy of government contact with
Penan.
The contrast in colonial government policy with regard to the establishment
of trade meetings is reflected today in Penan recollections of the period. For
Eastern Penan, accounts of trade meetings are the embodiment of the colonial
era. They mention these meetings with great frequency, always in the fondest
terms: such meetings are the signal feature of their memory of colonialism.
In contrast, what is striking when one talks to Western Penan in Belaga today is
how seldom they recall being visited by colonial authorities. Those visits that did
occur are remembered in considerable detail, but such events were very rare
indeed. Though they recall the visits of colonial officials in generally positive
terms (particularly because they were given shotguns), their accounts lack
the deep sense of nostalgia that is so evident in Eastern Penan accounts.
Penan began to settle in large numbers precisely at the time that Sarawak
joined Malaysia in 1963. District reports reveal a dramatic change once this
occurred. Suddenly, district officials began to make numerous trips to Penan
communities, particularly after helicopters were introduced in the 1970s.
In both the Baram and Belaga Districts, there was a determined interest in
providing the Penan with incentives to build permanent houses and improve
their farming methods. Increasingly through the 1970s and 1980s, the Sarawak
state government supplied Penan communities with goods intended to help
them make the transition to a settled life: chainsaws, outboard motors,
corrugated zinc roofing, plywood, and the like. As a result, Penan today
associate the period from 1963 to the present with the provision of these items.
They also associate this period with the other great development in their lives:
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the advent of logging and all the negative effects that accompany it. Equally
significant for the present discussion, they associate the period after 1963
with Malay authority.
Though they employ a common tripartite historical scheme, Eastern and
Western Penan make something very different of it. As noted, Western Penan
express little in the way of colonial nostalgia. They often complain about the
present government, but they nevertheless accept it as a legitimate, inevitable fait
accompli. Eastern Penan take a very different view on the matter. The recent
period of Malay hegemony is seen as contingent, merely the most recent transition
in the locus of political authority: from the pre-colonial period, to the Brookes
and British, and now to Malays.
Previously I noted that when speaking of past relationships with longhouse
aristocrats, both Eastern and Western Penan refer to being held or tagung, and
that while this implied a benevolent relationship, it did not imply unconditional
loyalty. Just as with longhouse patrons, in describing their relationships with
government officials – whether in the colonial past or at present – Penan employ
this same vocabulary of dependency. In doing so, the evaluative aspects of this
vocabulary are clearly in evidence. This is particularly conspicuous among Eastern
Penan. Eastern Penan narratives about contemporary political conditions are
filled with statements to the effect that, in contrast to the colonial government,
the contemporary government ‘does not know how to hold us’. Just as engagement
in relationships with longhouse patrons was conditional on the perception of
benevolence, so too do Eastern Penan conceive of their relationships with
government – whether colonial or Malaysian – in similar terms. For this reason,
Eastern Penan have today turned towards a belief in the imminent return of
colonialism. For them, the nation of Malaysia is merely another historical moment.
The Eastern Penan desire for a return to colonialism is the equivalent of the
previous practice of movement to another watershed to seek more benevolent
longhouse patrons.
Contemporary Eastern Penan seem intent on insisting that contemporary
Malay rule is illegitimate but that colonial rule is legitimate on the basis of
precedence and historical depth. It was orang putih, they state, who governed
them in ancestral times. Malays, by contrast, are mere newcomers. One elderly
man told me of a lecture that he had given to a senior police officer when he had
come with a larger force to break up a blockade: ‘I am a child of Rajah Brooke, a
child of the Queen. You are a child of the Malay government’. This man was, in
effect, asserting his seniority and telling this policeman that from his own
historical experience he knew how a government should act.
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While Western Penan perceive logging as a matter which must be negotiated

in the present, with contemporary government authorities, Eastern Penan have
historicised the logging issue. That is to say, Eastern Penan maintain an historical
dichotomy which opposes and idealises life in the colonial past with their present
hardship. The current struggle between Eastern Penan and the Sarawak government
can be seen as one over the meaning of that past, and its relevance for the future.
In the Eastern Penan view, during the colonial period, government authorities
behaved in a manner that was appropriate to their role. Colonial officers interceded
for Penan in trade meetings between Penan and Orang Ulu, brought about an
end to headhunting, never contested their rights to land, and never refused to lend
credence to what they might have to say.
The historical dichotomy created by Eastern Penan is manifested in all
manner of statements. Remarks about their current situation are constantly
contrastive. On several occasions, I was told that orang putih were like real fathers
to them, whereas the present Malay government was like a stepfather. Often
people said that they did not want to take the medicines given to them by Malays,
but that they wanted medicines from orang putih. Before, Eastern Penan say, it
was easy to get shotguns; today it is impossible to get them. Orang putih, they
say, were happy to sit and eat with them; Malays refuse to do so. Eastern Penan
portray colonial officers as predictable and trustworthy, people who abided by
their word. The present government, by contrast, is portrayed as duplicitous.27
The point of this pervasive Eastern Penan contrast is that they believe that the
colonial government respected them and the integrity of the lands they occupied,
while the current government does not. The colonial government not only left
them alone, but made sure that others did as well. They not only did not transgress
Eastern Penan boundaries, they maintained those boundaries so that others
would not violate them. The current government, by contrast, is not only
transgressing that boundary, but does so on a massive scale. As one nomadic
Penan man said, they have never had to raise blockades against orang putih but
only against Malays.
The nostalgia Eastern Penan feel for the colonial period has in fact been
transformed into a tangible sense of hope. Many Eastern Penan see their only
salvation in a return to colonialism, manifested in the person of the Queen.
Foreign environmentalists who have surreptitiously visited them in recent years
are the embodiment of the colonial past and are seen as the vanguard of
its return. When Eastern Penan describe their present situation to Western
environmentalists, they believe they are talking to individuals who have the
power to put an end to Malay hegemony and the condition with which it is
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associated: logging. Among Eastern Penan today there are any number of
expressions of this hope for the return to colonialism, the most common being
the declarations of how they feel when seeing foreign visitors. On numerous
occasions I was told that orang putih were like the sun. Once, upon arriving
among a group of nomadic Penan in the upper Tutoh, a man commented that
my arrival was his good fate. He told those assembled that he had had a dream
recently: The sun was in the sky, and he saw all of their mothers and fathers
descending to the earth. This, he said, was a sign that I would be coming. On
another occasion, while speaking to a group of Eastern Penan, another man
commented wistfully, ‘When we think of you [orang putih], we think of our
mothers and fathers’. One older man said that when he had heard I had arrived,
he felt as though he were full, as though he had eaten his fill of pig, his bones felt
strong, and his breath returned.
Another expression of Eastern Penan hope for a return to colonial rule are
direct questions about when orang putih can return. One woman asked me
‘When you leave, when are orang putih coming back? We will just stay here and
wait’. One man declared that he refused to work for companies because he was
waiting for orang putih to return. Another man said that he had refused to take
money from companies, and that even if he had to revert to wearing bark cloth,
he would continue to do so until orang putih returned.28 Such declarations of
steadfastness are common. Often they are accompanied by direct questions
about why the Queen has abandoned them. One woman asked: ‘Doesn’t she pity
us? Does she no longer have any feelings for us? Doesn’t she want us?’
One of the most tangible Eastern Penan expressions of this expectation is that
they consistently refer to Westerners as perita (‘government’, a borrowing of the
Iban and Sarawak Malay term perintah),29 or use the terms orang putih and perita
as synonyms. Many times Eastern Penan addressed me as ‘ka perita’ (you [plural]
government). On one occasion, I walked through the forest with a group of
nomadic Penan, and passed a series of marks painted on trees by timber company
survey crews. As we did so, one man stopped, pointed to one of these, and asked,
‘When we meet survey crews, they always tell us that they are here at the request
of perita. Is this true?’ I replied that it was true in the sense that the government
gave companies timber licences and that many politicians held these licences.
Somewhat confused, he said ‘Really? You orang putih ask them to do this?’
Yet another expression of the Eastern Penan conflation of orang putih with
government is that they frequently seek advice or permission from foreigners to
do certain things. On numerous occasions, I was asked by Eastern Penan what
they should do about the incursions of logging companies onto their lands:
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should they construct blockades? Should they continue to wait? Should they
accept compensation from companies? Eastern Penan also seek reassurance in a
way reminiscent of their relations with colonial officers. One man said that he
had heard from Penan in another community that orang putih would put them
in jail if they collected Aquilaria sp. (an aromatic wood which Penan trade), and
he was anxious to seek reassurance from me that this was not true.
It is into this environment of colonial nostalgia, violated trust, transgression, and
expectation that contemporary environmentalists have stepped. Though they may
be ignorant of the workings of government, or exactly who the government is,
Eastern Penan feel that the critique of the political economy of logging which foreign
environmentalists offer is accurate. They believe that Western environmentalists
speak honestly, directly, and clearly, and think that these individuals express not
merely sympathy but actively oppose the transgression of the boundaries of Penan
lands. From the Eastern Penan perspective, foreign environmentalists are acting in
a way that is consistent with the past behaviour of colonial authorities, and they
project their past experience with colonial officers onto these individuals.
For Western Penan, logging is an issue that is negotiated entirely with
reference to the present. When Western Penan talk about the colonial past it
does not have nearly the same resonance as it does among Eastern Penan. Among
Western Penan, one rarely hears about the Queen or is asked for advice on how
to respond to logging. Certainly visitors are never told that their presence is like
seeing the sun rise. In short, for Western Penan, colonialism does not provide any
sort of image from which they in turn project a future, as is the case among
Eastern Penan. This contrast between Eastern and Western Penan appears to be
the product of the more frequent and sustained contact which occurred between
Penan and colonial authorities in the Baram District relative to the low degree of
contact in the Belaga District.
SOCIAL FORMS AND THE CONSTITUTION

OF COMMUNITIES
The Demographic and Ecological Basis of
Penan Communities
Despite occupying superficially similar rainforest ecosystems and relying on a
similar range of resources, Eastern and Western Penan constitute social existence
in very distinct ways. These differences have important implications for the way
these two societies have responded to the activities of timber companies. Among
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both Eastern and Western Penan, the band or community is the primary unit
of social and political identity. However, the way in which they are constituted
and the degree to which they persist is strikingly different. A primary feature of
Western Penan communities is their long-term stability for these are enduring social
aggregates. Associated with this stability is a very strong sense of community cohesion
and solidarity. We lack comparable census data for Eastern Penan – but, as we shall
see, it is clear that Eastern Penan bands are much more fluid in their composition
and much more ephemeral with respect to long-term historical identity.
A starting point in the analysis of Eastern and Western Penan social
organisation is to note the contrast in band size existing between these two
populations. Western Penan communities tend to be much larger than those of
Eastern Penan, generally with 60 to 200 members.30 Eastern Penan communities,
by comparison, average only 20 to 40 members. Associated with this contrast in
band size are differences in the settlement systems of these two populations.
Western Penan traditionally maintained a two-tier settlement system comprising
central base camps occupied for up to one year, and ephemeral satellite
camps. After moving to a new base camp, Western Penan exploited sago in
an ever-expanding circle outwards, establishing satellite camps from which sago
could be worked and transported to the main settlement. When transport
distances became too great, preparations were made to move to a new area.31
In contrast, Eastern Penan maintain only a single-tier settlement system: bands
move from site to site rather than move out in a radial pattern from a base camp.
Furthermore, camp occupation among Eastern Penan is much shorter – generally
only a few weeks – than among Western Penan. Associated with the larger size
of Western Penan bands, each band traditionally occupied a much larger foraging
area than did Eastern Penan. The Penan Geng Belaga, for instance, occupy an
area of some 1,500 sq. km. Eastern Penan, on the other hand, rarely forage over
areas larger than 400 sq. km.
Both Eastern and Western Penan conceive of their territories as a shared
corporate estate over which all members of a community have rights. However,
there exists one very significant point of difference between Eastern and Western
Penan with respect to land tenure. A concept of key significance to Western
Penan with reference to the management and exploitation of forest resources is
molong (to preserve or to foster). Implicit in the Western Penan concept is that
resources fostered are claimed, either by communities or by individuals.
A community may molong a particular watershed in order to allow the growth
of resources there for future harvest. Although the term molong also applies to
the claiming of particular sago clumps or fruit trees by specific individuals, it
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does not constitute ownership of those resources, but is a slightly proprietary sort
of stewardship. Other members of the community may exploit resources which
are individually claimed but must inform the individual who claimed that
resource. The molong system provides a way to monitor information on the
availability of resources over vast tracts of land and prevents the indiscriminate
use of resources which might otherwise be depleted. In a sense, the Western
Penan settlement system may be seen as a temporalised manifestation of the
molong concept. The existence of the molong complex is one of the factors
associated with the cohesive character of Western Penan communities. Western
Penan bands possess a strong sense of belonging to a particular portion of
landscape, and this is validated economically and historically by the management
of resources in an area. In contrast, Eastern Penan do not molong resources to any
significant degree, so this concept plays little role in notions of resource
management in either its individual or community aspects.
This contrast in concepts of resource management is also associated with the
degree of overlap in Eastern and Western Penan foraging ranges. Among Western
Penan there is very little overlap in the areas occupied by various bands, while
among Eastern Penan the degree of overlap appears to be considerable. In neither
of these populations are foraging ranges bounded. However, the lack of specified
boundaries should not be taken to indicate a lack of territorial claims. What is
important to both Eastern and Western Penan, rather than specified boundaries,
is the recognition of rights over particular watersheds.32 However, as we shall see,
there is variation in what constitutes rights, and to whom they are extended.
The Nature of Penan Communities

One of the most conspicuous indicators of the nature of Western Penan
communities, in contrast to those of Eastern Penan, is group names. When
addressed to Eastern Penan, questions concerning the name of a particular group
are met with incomprehension. Western Penan, by contrast, unhesitatingly
indicate that they are Penan Apau, Penan Seping, Penan Lusong, or the like.
Individuals may speak of themselves as belonging to several groups, some of
which no longer exist. Such names are used in a segmentary manner, with an
historical and genealogical referent. No single name is the correct name but
depends on the immediate context of inclusiveness with other Western Penan
groups. That is, these names are used to express a shared history, and therefore
kinship, however distant. The Western Penan use of group names points to the
significance of band identity, an identity that persists for many generations.
Eastern Penan contrast markedly in this respect: even extant groups do not
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designate themselves by the use of group names.33 The historically situated

segmentary group identification of Western Penan is associated with three
other aspects of Western Penan society: Community partition associated with
population growth, genealogical knowledge and claims to aristocratic status, and
conceptions of band membership.
It is clear from settlement sequences, genealogies and historical accounts that
Western Penan bands have continually fissioned through time. There are a
number of proximate, political reasons why bands may fission, as is evident in
the fact that the narratives of such events frequently refer to conflict, but the
ultimate causes of partition are demographic and ecological. Among Western
Penan, there has been a very high rate of population increase in the twentieth
century. Between 1955 and 1987 alone, this population increased by over 200
per cent. As individual Western Penan groups expand, provisioning becomes
increasingly difficult. Task groups must travel increasingly far to reach sago
groves and experience decreased hunting success. Further, when game is brought
back to the community, it is difficult to provide each household with sufficient
meat, creating more pressure to partition.
Following partition, an independent set of processes begin to occur, mostly a
product of decisions concerning marriage and post-marital residence. These will
be discussed shortly. For now it is sufficient to note that Western Penan strongly
prefer community endogamous marriage. Given the small size of new bands, and
thus the limited number of marriageable partners, most marriages which occur
during the first few years after partition occur with persons from the parent
community. In time, however, as the community grows, more people are able to
marry within the community, and children being born at this point have fewer
direct links to the parent community. Through time a progressively higher
percentage of marriages occur within the community and the ramifying effects
of endogamy reinforce a community’s sense of internal solidarity and of
distinctiveness from other communities.
The process of community formation among Eastern Penan differs greatly
from that of Western Penan. We lack the information necessary to determine
whether significant population growth has occurred among Eastern Penan.
Nevertheless, it is certain that Eastern Penan bands have partitioned through
time, though in a way that is very different from those of Western Penan.
To fully comprehend this, it is necessary that we understand the ways in which
Eastern Penan bands are constituted, which will be considered shortly. For the
present, it can be said that among Eastern Penan, partition does not appear to be
the traumatic affair that it is among Western Penan.
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The members of a Western Penan community retain a strong sense of

community based on descent from common ancestors. Relative to Eastern
Penan, Western Penan have an exceedingly rich genealogical tradition
transmitted orally. The fact that Western Penan retain this knowledge to such
a remarkable degree, and that communities have narratable histories, says much
about the nature of Western Penan society. In the abstract, Western Penan
recognise themselves as all related to each other to varying degrees. Some type
of relationship can nearly always be established between two individuals in
different communities, however distant. What is remarkable about Western
Penan genealogical accounts is not just their depth (five to seven generations),
but their breadth as well. Rather than simple vertical recitations of ancestors,
these genealogical sequences broaden out to incorporate the ancestors of virtually
all Western Penan. Not only are they used to relate individuals from different
groups to each other, they are also deployed in asserting claims to leadership
and, by extension, to land.
One characteristic of Western Penan society which stands in sharp contrast
to that of Eastern Penan is a strong institution of leadership. Though both
Eastern and Western Penan bands have headmen, Western Penan are adamant
in insisting that their headmen are of aristocratic status. The source of such
claims generally lies in reference to the marriage of ancestors with the offspring
of Orang Ulu aristocrats many generations before. Significantly, however, though
recognition of aristocratic status is a matter of general consensus within a
community, it is very often not a matter of consensus between communities.
Indeed, one of the most common and contentious foci of intercommunity
conflict is claims to aristocratic status. Such claims not only validate the status of
headmen but also serve to validate the claims of bands to particular watersheds.
Western Penan historical narratives are framed in terms of headmen bringing
followers to or from certain places, and the contemporary occupation of particular
watersheds is validated with reference to ancestral occupation of those areas.
When we consider such narratives with reference to the ongoing process of
band growth and partition, it is evident that the territories claimed by Western
Penan communities have not been occupied by those bands in perpetuity.
Communities are enduring social aggregates and strongly corporate with respect
to land. But the territories of those communities, viewed over time, float over the
landscape. Particular portions of the landscape may be abandoned, only to be
reoccupied, perhaps many generations later.
Considering that over the course of several decades it is likely that community
partition has occurred, it often happens that, on genealogical grounds, several
315
communities can claim an equal right of access to the same watershed. Upon
reoccupation, trees claimed (molong) by aristocratic ancestors are cited as verifying
contemporary claims to land. However, such claims are frequently contested by
members of other bands who contest the aristocratic status of the ancestors
of rival claimants. In denying the significance of the ancestors of members of
another community, Western Penan are by extension denying the claims of
contemporary headmen to aristocratic status, and thus their rights to assert their
claim to land.
With regard to matters of genealogical knowledge and claims to aristocratic
status, Eastern Penan stand in stark contrast to Western Penan. Though they
recall certain luminary ancestors, Eastern Penan genealogies lack depth and
breadth relative to those of Western Penan. Few people can name ancestors
beyond their grandparents, and though every band has a headman, Eastern
Penan do not invoke the principle of rank as a qualification for this office.
As such, we do not observe the forms of contestation typical of Western Penan,
wherein communities denigrate the claims of other communities by denigrating
the claims of certain individuals to aristocratic status. When they do contest the
claims of other communities to particular watersheds, Eastern Penan may cite
previous or continuous occupation to justify the exploitation of a particular
area, but rarely are such claims made with reference to aristocratic ancestors.
The Constitution of Communities: Filiation,

Marriage Patterns, and Post-Marital Residence
Among both Eastern and Western Penan there are two foundations for band
membership: filiation and post-marital residence. The first is, for any individual,
a matter of circumstance: an individual becomes a band member by being born
into the community in which his or her parents are resident. On the second
principle of recruitment – post-marital residence – Eastern and Western Penan
differ greatly. As noted, Western Penan espouse a very strong preference for
community endogamy as they prefer to have people remain in their natal
community throughout life: the desire to live with anyone but their own closest
consanguine kin, even after marriage is inconceivable to them. The strength
of preference for community endogamy has produced among contemporary
Western Penan a high percentage of marriages to first cousins, marriages that
are not only possible but preferred.34 Among Eastern Penan, we observe a higher
incidence of band exogamy than among Western Penan, a pattern produced by
the relative lack of availability of marriage partners in their typically smaller
bands. Further, the Eastern Penan form of household is the nuclear family,
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unlike the three-generation stem family typical of Western Penan. In cases of

community exogamous marriage, nuclear families practise reciprocal residence
in that they move back and forth between the respective natal communities of
each spouse.35
In general, for Eastern Penan, community exogamous marriage does not have
the associations that it does for Western Penan. This difference in attitude is in
part due to differences in Eastern and Western Penan conceptions of community.
As noted, Western Penan communities identify themselves much more as discrete
entities and, as I will discuss, tend to be much more inward looking than Eastern
Penan communities. As such, there is a sense among Western Penan that those
marrying into another community and taking up residence elsewhere are
marrying out into a community of others. Among Eastern Penan, community
exogamy denotes the one who has married somewhat away. The Western Penan
perspective is distinctly oppositional – the natal community versus other
communities – and post-marital residence decisions are regarded as a zero-sum
game. The Eastern Penan perspective is more relative: One marries into a band
of those who happen to live elsewhere. To fully understand this, it is necessary
that we understand something of the oppositionality characteristic of Western
Penan communities.
Despite the fact that nearly all Western Penan are related to each other in
known ways, in their relations with others they make a fundamental distinction
between kin and others (ire beken). Given Western Penan patterns of marriage
and post-marital residence, genealogical, social, and physical distance are mostly
isomorphic. Such distance is central to Western Penan notions of relationship.
Being considered ire beken is a function of this distance. For the most part ire
beken are those of one’s more distant kin whose natal communities are other than
one’s own. This is, I have demonstrated, an historical process. There is not some
particular point at which those in a particular community become ire beken.
Rather it is a kind of peeling away, as relationships between individuals in these
communities become genealogically and socially more remote. This distance is
expressed not only in terms of relationship but in terms of perceived moral
qualities as well, in statements which have a strongly evaluative, even negative,
sense to them.
The Core Characteristics of Penan Communities

A fundamental characteristic of Western Penan communities is that they are
closed, thus conforming to a pattern widespread among central Bornean
peoples. As noted, recruitment to band membership is through filiation and
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post-marital residence. With the exception of reciprocal residence, it is unheard

of for a Western Penan household to move from one community to another:
Western Penan do not wish to live with anyone but their closest kin.
By contrast, Eastern Penan communities are relatively less closed. This is not
to say that Eastern Penan households move randomly to other communities,
but they may somewhat more easily detach themselves from one band and
attach themselves to another, for instance if one member of a conjugal pair
wishes to be with a sibling who resides elsewhere. Among Eastern Penan we
notice a pattern wherein clusters of two or three bands enjoy a particularly
close relationship, within which there is a greater tendency for marriages to be
contracted and among which households can easily move.
A second major feature of Penan communities is that they are strongly
corporate in character, though there is variation between Eastern and Western
Penan in certain aspects of this kind. The corporateness of Penan communities
is manifested most clearly in the distribution of food and other material goods,
in ritual status, and in notions of land tenure. Among both Eastern and Western
Penan, the household is the primary unit of production and consumption.36
Between production and consumption, however, lies a great deal of redistribution:
all food brought back to the community is shared. With respect to ritual status,
Penan communities observe certain annual rituals, are frequently under a
common set of prohibitions following a death and, in the case of transgressions
against the supernatural, the community as a whole is at risk from
retribution.37 With regard to land tenure and the definition of territory, I have
already considered this matter in the discussion of foraging areas and the molong
concept: this is a significant point of contrast between Eastern and Western
Penan. Western Penan are more strongly corporate in the sense that their
communities – and the lands which they occupy – are conceived of as much
more discrete, closed, and exclusive. Further, communities are perceived as
having some permanence beyond the lives of individual members. Eastern
Penan, by contrast, do not conceive of the lands which they occupy as closed to
the same degree as Western Penan. They do feel an attachment to specific
watersheds and feel some sense of proprietariness over them, but there is a much
greater degree of merging at the boundaries, both in terms of overlap in foraging
areas and in terms of the community as a social unit. This relatively lesser
degree of boundedness is a product of the way in which Eastern Penan bands are
temporally constituted. These bands may be considered to be a product of the
developmental cycle of domestic groups writ large. As such, to the degree that
they are corporate and closed, they are not perceived as existing in perpetuity.
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A group of close kin with certain rights to land live together to raise families
and age together, and move back and forth among each other. The openness of
Eastern Penan bands with respect to the greater tendency toward exogamy
means that through time they exhibit a much higher degree of reconstitution in
band affiliation and band identity.
Another important dimension of the constitution of Penan communities is
the degree to which they are autonomous. A key characteristic of Western Penan
communities is that this autonomy exists to an extreme degree, relative to Eastern
Penan. In all respects, Western Penan communities act as independent political
entities. As noted, once partition occurs, communities increasingly close in upon
themselves and develop a strong sense of insularity. This autonomy and insularity
of Western Penan communities is expressed in many ways, among the most
evident being the way in which members of one community refer to those in
others. In general, Western Penan assume that members of other communities
are morally inferior to themselves. Disparaging comments about individuals in
other communities, or about those communities as a whole, are made with great
frequency, most often in comments that focus on alleged dishonesty, laziness, or
unwillingness to share. The degree to which this is done varies with the degree
of relatedness and time since partition: The more recent the partition, the less
morally ‘other’ members of another community are held to be.
Perceived differences between communities are expressed with reference to
adet (adat in Bahasa Malaysia). As in much of insular Southeast Asia, the Western
Penan concept of adet conveys a sense of custom or tradition. For instance,
Western Penan often contrast ‘true adet’ with more recent cultural innovations.
One of the most important contexts in which the term adet is used is in
highlighting particularity and contrast, whether in reference to ethnicity or
community: Penan adet versus that of Kayan or the adet of one’s own community
versus that of other Penan communities. Used in this way, the term adet is at
once contrastive and evaluative. The language of judgement for Penan is almost
entirely framed in terms of adet. To be characterised as lacking in adet or not
knowing adet is one of the strongest forms of condemnation. When not intended
to refer to particular individuals, it is most often applied to a community, such
as one’s own community versus other communities.
The insularity of Western Penan communities can also be seen in relations
with in-marrying affines. A person marrying into a community, being considered
ire beken, is always an outsider. Having no close relatives around, such individuals
are felt to experience a sense of isolation, to have their feelings easily hurt, and to
be subject to feelings of abandonment and vulnerability (mesikau), a state Western
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Penan describe as similar to being orphaned. Far from their families, these
individuals are also thought to be subject to a form of chronic worry or panic
about death. Western Penan thus make a conscious effort to express regard for
the feelings of in-marrying affines, and take considerable pains not to offend
them. Underlying such deliberate expressions of regard is the recognition of a
fundamental gulf lying between the members of different communities.
More than mere insularity, Western Penan communities exist in a mildly
antagonistic, competitive relationship. Such competitiveness takes many forms.
Among the most distinctive (albeit oblique) manifestations is an extreme
sensitivity to insult (munyi). Among Western Penan, there exists a general
suspicion that people from other communities are critical of, or feel superior to,
the members of one’s own community, and thus relish insulting them. Even
where insult is not intended, it is significant that members of one community
often interpret the statements of those from other communities as if they
were. On one occasion, during a visit of some people from the community
of Leng Jek to the community of Leng Luar, a man from Leng Luar quite
innocently referred to Leng Jek as la’ bui’ (above), despite the fact that these two
communities are at almost identical elevations. This suggestion greatly angered
the visitors from Leng Jek. In suggesting that Leng Jek was at a higher elevation,
the man from Leng Luar was seen to be implying that those from Leng Jek were
more remote, and thus somehow less sophisticated than themselves. In relations
with other communities, the suspicion of intent to insult always exists, a
characteristic which fosters the insularity described earlier.
As noted, one of the biggest foci of competitiveness – and thus autonomy – is
with respect to claims to aristocratic status. Indeed, the fact that Western Penan
make such claims is itself a manifestation of competitiveness. Among Western
Penan, issues of community and aristocratic status are tightly linked. Which
people in other communities hold most solid claim to aristocratic status,
particularly relative to those in one’s own community, is a matter of considerable
interest and debate. The claims of a particular headman to aristocratic status are
frequently depreciated in other communities. To do so is to disparage not merely
an individual, but an entire community.
When Western Penan began to settle, an entirely new realm of competitiveness
emerged, as the state government began to provide development projects.
Western Penan view the provision of such projects as a competitive matter,
responding to the allocation of projects to other communities with jealousy and
resentment. For example, the state government has recently indicated plans to
locate a school in the Plieran River area, although the precise location has yet to
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be decided. The communities concerned have defined the resolution of this

issue as being of a competitive nature. Each wants a school near their community
rather than elsewhere and believe that if it is built in another community, the
members of that community will feel superior.
Eastern Penan differ most significantly from Western Penan in terms of
the autonomy of communities. Eastern Penan are not less autonomous per se:
Like Western Penan, Eastern Penan communities act as independent political
entities. What differs is the character of that autonomy. Previously, I described
how Western Penan communities progressively close in upon themselves
following partition, and how they are characterised by a quality of insularity.
It is the nature of that insularity that distinguishes Eastern Penan. This is
most immediately evident in how Eastern Penan talk about persons in other
communities. Although Eastern Penan are by no means immune to make
disparaging remarks about persons in other communities, they do so with notably
less frequency than Western Penan. More significantly, when they do feel the
need to make critical remarks, they are more often directed at particular individuals
rather than at communities. Used as an evaluative device, adet is most often
spoken of as a quality of individuals and not nearly as often generalised to
communities. In short, Eastern Penan seem less inclined to make blanket
statements about the shortcomings of persons in other communities by virtue of
community affiliation.38
Earlier I described the case of relations with in-marrying affines as an example
of the insularity of Western Penan communities. Among Eastern Penan, one
senses none of the distance between affines that exists among Western Penan,
nor do Eastern Penan portray in-marrying affines as subject to feelings of
abandonment, isolation, and vulnerability, nor susceptible to panic attacks.
Lacking the profound insularity of Western Penan communities, Eastern
Penan display neither the competitiveness nor the extreme sensitivity to insult
characteristic of Western Penan. Munyi is a word employed with great frequency
among Western Penan, but its Eastern Penan equivalent, muau, is only rarely
heard. Although Western Penan are most sensitive to insult from members of
other Penan communities, Eastern Penan seem more subject to insult from
external agents: government officials, company representatives, and the like. It is
further interesting to consider the vocabulary that Eastern and Western Penan
use in describing or responding to insult. When they feel they have been in some
way insulted, Western Penan interpret this as due to the fact that they are not
respected. The Western Penan verb mengadet (to respect) is derived from the
stem adet. Mengadet denotes more than respect in a formal sense; it also conveys
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something of the notion of regard. This association between respect and regard
is evident in the context of reduplicative evaluative statements which are so
common among Western Penan, such as when it is said of a person that they ‘do
not know adet, do not know feelings’. Among Western Penan, this link between
adet and feelings – how one’s words or actions affect the feelings of another – is
made very directly, and breaches of adet are seen to reflect a lack of regard of one
person or community for others. To conform to adet, therefore, is to show regard
for the feelings of others.39 What Western Penan would take to be purposeful
insults – for instance some disparaging statement – are, among Eastern Penan,
interpreted as slights caused not so much by a lack of respect as by the lack of
ability to pity, think, or to know how to feel: in short, a lack of adet. Thus, for
instance, Eastern Penan speak frequently of persons who ‘don’t know how to
pity’ or ‘don’t know how to think’. That is to say, they believe these people to be
in some way incapable of empathy. Western Penan do also speak of
persons lacking pity, but interpret it more as a wilful corruption of character.
The distinction between Eastern and Western Penan notions of respect and
regard is subtle to be sure. The Eastern Penan conception is closer to empathy or
pity, while the Western Penan is closer to respect. It is as if Eastern Penan absolve
others of some responsibility for what they see as a lack of ability of those persons
to pity or understand, while Western Penan attribute slights to a conscious
disregard, an unwillingness to pity. The active verb prefix meng- in the Western
Penan term mengadet refers much more directly to the agency of the accused.
This contrast between Eastern and Western Penan has important implications
for interpreting their response to current affairs. As noted, a product of the
corporateness, closedness, and autonomy of Western Penan communities is a
quality of insularity, an insularity which constantly closes in upon itself,
producing a strong sense of competitiveness and an extreme sensitivity to insult.
Prior to the influx of loggers, the sphere in which this social competition was
manifested was that of claims to aristocratic status, conveyed through the
medium of genealogical accounts. Once Western Penan began to settle, the
terms of competition shifted somewhat, as the provision of government
development projects became an arena in which to manifest such relationships.
Today the terms of competition have shifted yet again. Timber companies bring
in what appear to Penan to be unlimited amounts of money. As such, the most
recent manifestation of this competitive pattern is in attempts to extract as much
as possible from those companies. In speaking to Western Penan about
compensation negotiations with timber companies, they seem to be more
concerned with what other communities are receiving than with the fairness of
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the compensation packages that they themselves are negotiating. In one recent
case, the members of one community were upset that the members of another
community had inflated the number of households in their community in their
request for compensation. Not only was this felt to mean that they were getting
more than was their due, they were also concerned if the company considered the
other community to be larger, they might then appoint the headman to some
supervisory position within the camp.
The most visible manifestation of contemporary Western Penan competi-
tiveness is the desire of Penan communities in the Belaga District to acquire Toyota
Landcruiser trucks, something unheard of among Eastern Penan. Today virtually
all Western Penan communities in the Belaga District are striving to acquire
these, and several communities have already done so. Those that have not
desperately wish to, and are in the process of negotiating with companies for help
in acquiring them. The present Western Penan competition for Landcruiser trucks
is merely a contemporary manifestation of a fundamental pattern of community
autonomy and competitiveness. As they have encountered timber companies
moving into their areas, Western Penan have been as concerned with the response
of other communities to those companies as they have with their own response.
They appear to identify other communities, even more than timber companies,
as opponents. Indeed their embrace of timber companies derives from a desire to
foil the ambitions of their perceived competitors, and is entirely consistent with
the traditional Western Penan pattern of intercommunity relations.
As noted, the Eastern Penan response to logging companies has been very
different from that of Western Penan, and the reasons for this contrast lay
partially in the characteristics of Eastern Penan society. The competitiveness
evident among Western Penan, expressed in their relations with timber companies,
is lacking almost completely. Even where they have accepted compensation, it
seems that to Eastern Penan it represents an unfortunate departure from a
formerly united stand against companies: For them this is a kind of letdown, an
admission of defeat, something they would prefer not to talk about – decidedly
not something they are in competition with other communities over, as is the
case among Western Penan. Even as Eastern Penan appear to be moving towards
a more acquiescent stance in response to logging, it nevertheless remains the case
that the Eastern Penan pattern of response to logging is very different from that
of the Western Penan. By far the most prevalent locus of dispute among Western
Penan is in relations between communities, and such disputes arise from a pre-
existing ethos of competitiveness. Among Eastern Penan, intercommunity
tensions also exist, but they seem to arise less from competitiveness than from a
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sense of violation.40 Also, among Eastern Penan many of the present tensions
that exist occur within communities, something that is decidedly less common
among Western Penan. There has emerged something of a generation gap, as
younger Eastern Penan men have begun to work for timber companies against
the strong protests of older persons within their communities. There are also
numerous intra-community disputes concerning decisions to accept compensation.
Many Eastern Penan remain vehemently against compensation, while others in
their own communities have begun to accept it.
CONCLUSIONS
Up to the present, commentators on the present situation in Sarawak have not
acknowledged the distinction that exists between Eastern and Western Penan,
nor have they acknowledged that these two populations have responded to
logging in markedly different ways. In the preceding discussion, I have examined
three factors which have played a role in the contrastive Eastern and Western
Penan responses to logging which were based on differences in the contemporary
political context, particularly in recent efforts made to organise Penan; in the
historical context in which these two societies have existed, particularly with
respect to their relations with colonial authorities; and in the nature of social
relations characteristic of these two populations.
In examining each of these factors, I have not intended to determine which
of them is the most direct cause of the apparent difference between Eastern and
Western Penan responses to logging. It would be easy enough to attribute Eastern
Penan resistance to logging to environmentalist influence and be done with it.
Certainly it appears that individuals such as Bruno Manser have played a role in
the Eastern Penan decision to erect blockades, both in organising directly and in
playing a legitimising role. However, to attribute Eastern Penan resistance entirely
to the presence of environmentalists ignores a great deal that is significant and
can only be supported as a proximate cause. Underlying environmentalist
influence is the broader historical and social context in which Eastern Penan
have existed. Without the colonial precedent described above, it is doubtful that
Eastern Penan would have responded as they did to Manser and other
environmentalists. It is likewise the case that the distinctive features of these
societies have contributed to their response to logging. Western Penan acquiescence
to the influx of logging companies is clearly associated with the insularity of
communities and the competitiveness that exists between them, just as Eastern
Penan resistance is associated with social patterns that contribute to solidarity.
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My broader purpose in examining the contrastive cases of Eastern and

Western Penan resistance and acquiescence is to consider the implications of this
contrastive situation for theories of domination. In this respect, the acquiescence
of Western Penan to logging is as significant as is Eastern Penan resistance.
Interest in acquiescence, of course, has a long genealogy. Not only is it addressed
explicitly by authors such as Scott (1985 and 1990) and Gaventa (1980), but it is
central to the work of Marx and is foundational to the Gramscian concept
of hegemony. It infuses the work of Foucault and is a central element of
contemporary feminist theory. Nevertheless, I believe that there are certain aspects
of the Western Penan pattern of acquiescence which makes it worthy of our
attention and which has implications for analysing structures of domination.
The theorising of domination and subordination has consistently been framed
contrastively and hierarchically, with reference to those who exercise power and
those who respond to it, whether by acquiescence or resistance. It seems to be
assumed that the key relationship in any context is that between those who
dominate and those who are subordinate. Too often the social formations of
subordinate agents – comprised elements such as concepts of community, width
of social field, and marriage patterns – are reduced to generic categories such as
class or caste. The present analysis is intended to point to a recognition of the fact
that subordination can only be understood within a field of culturally constituted
social relationships. When Penan respond to various forms of domination –
whether embodied in the actions of government officials or timber companies –
they do so not only with reference to those external agents but to other
Penan. Who those other Penan are, how ‘other’ they are thought to be, how their
identity is constituted relative to one’s own, and what their motivations for
certain actions are thought to be, are very different matters among Eastern and
Western Penan. Understanding this wider context in which domination occurs
allows us to better understand the relationship between forms of subordination
and how existence in a wider social field might lead subordinates to act in certain
ways in response to domination: whether they will resist or acquiesce.
It is perhaps useful to think of this dynamic in terms that James Scott defined.
In Domination and the Arts of Resistance (1990), Scott distinguished between
what he termed public transcripts and hidden transcripts. The former are defined
as ‘a shorthand way of describing the open interaction between subordinates and
those who dominate’ (1990: 2), while the latter are defined as ‘discourse that
takes place “offstage”, beyond direct observation by power holders’ (1990: 4).
It is, he notes, ‘specific to a given social site and to a particular set of actors’
(1990: 14). What Scott is particularly interested in is the relationship between
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these two transcripts: ‘The hidden transcript is produced for a different audience
and under different constraints of power than the public transcript. By assessing
the discrepancy between the hidden transcript and the public transcript we
may begin to judge the impact of domination on public discourse’ (1990: 5).
In elaborating his argument, Scott provides a scale of ‘hypothetical discursive
sites’ (1990: 26) in terms of the audiences for whom public and hidden transcripts
are intended in one particular type of context, that of slavery. What produces
this scale, lying between the extremes of ‘immediate family’ and ‘harsh master/
overseer’ is the degree of freedom from ‘intimidation from above’ (1990: 26).
Though this particular example is intended to elucidate degrees of discursive
openness in one particular context, Scott’s schematic representation of the
multiplicity of discursive sites is intended to be illustrative of a more general way
of conceptualising structures of domination. Scott recognises the linearity of
this scheme and later asks, in an extended attempt to correct this shortcoming,
‘How cohesive is the hidden transcript shared among members of a particular
subordinate group?’ (1990: 134). He states that
asking how unified a hidden transcript is amounts to asking about the resolving
power of the social lens through which subordination passes. If subordinates are
entirely atomized […] there is no lens through which a critical, collective account
can be focused. Barring this limiting case, however, the cohesion of the hidden
transcript would seem to rest on both the homogeneity of the domination and
the social cohesion of the victims themselves (1990: 134).
Referring to the matter of social cohesion, Scott refers to the ‘process by

which such high moral density develops’ (1990: 135).
This analysis points to a way to interpret how particular patterns of ‘moral
density’ might be differentially constituted in the context of particular
structures of domination. Identical forms of domination imposed over
dissimilar subordinate social contexts seem likely to produce differential
results. As such, structures of domination are not simply a product of the
character of hegemonic forces but of how subordinates constitute themselves
both prior to, and in response to, domination. Domination occurs only in
particular social contexts, and the contours of that context have a great deal
to do with the response to domination.
Scott’s argument clearly has implications for our interpretation of the
distinctiveness of Eastern and Western Penan responses to logging. What we see
contrasted in the Penan case is differential patterns of ‘moral density’, and
differential configurations of discursive sites. It is evident that the dimensionality
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of discursive sites in which the hidden transcript may be spoken differs between
the Eastern and Western Penan. Shared critiques of domination (Scott 1990: xi)
may not necessarily be divulged among those with whom they are held in
common: while they may be held in common, the person (or entity) to whom
one reveals them is another matter. Given the composition of Eastern Penan
households and communities, we see more breadth in the constitution of their
discursive sites. Among Western Penan, on the other hand, discursive sites are
considerably more discrete in their distribution and much more confined by the
boundaries of communities. Between the Eastern and Western Penan, what
constitutes the domain of the hidden and what constitutes the domain of the
public differs considerably.
Among other things, the contrastive cases presented here have implications
for reconsidering a rather traditional sub-field of anthropology that is concerned
with the analysis of social organisation. Despite the recent publication of a
number of innovative studies concerned with the intersection between kinship,
social inequality and gender (Collier and Yanagisako 1987; Kelly 1993), the
study of social organisation has been a rather moribund field of study within
anthropology in the last two decades or so (Faubion 1996). I believe that a more
concerted effort to link kinship and inequality should be made, in order to bring
the insights (and methods) of kinship theory to the study of the relationship
between domination and the ideological and performative aspects of social
forms which are subjected to hegemonic processes. Such an effort would extend
Scott’s analysis, yielding important insights into the ways in which structures
of domination are configured in the process of confronting particular social
formations.
A second issue that a comparison of these two cases leads us to consider is the
significance of external influence in the dynamics of resistance. Most treatments
of domination are based on the premise that when explicit acts of resistance
occur, it is sufficient to assume that they are autochthonous, that the forms or
conditions of domination are themselves sufficient to produce explicit acts of
resistance. The facts in the Eastern Penan case seem to suggest that foreign
environmentalists did play some role in fostering or legitimising Eastern Penan
civil disobedience. This is a particularly appropriate question in the present case
because it also raises questions about the authority of external influence. When
Eastern Penan encounter environmentalists, they do not perceive individuals
whom they recognise as having an interest in preserving global biodiversity,
asserting the rights of indigenous peoples, or – more narrowly – helping them to
stop logging. Rather, Eastern Penan believe they are encountering individuals
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who are, or perhaps only may be, agents of the Queen. For Eastern Penan, logging
is an issue that has not been simply politicised by foreign environmentalists, but
historicised by Penan themselves. Perhaps it is inaccurate to suggest that for
Eastern Penan it is NOT an historical matter at all but, rather, one of imminent
return: an imagined political future. The current struggle between Eastern Penan
and the Sarawak government can be seen as one over the meaning of the colonial
past, and its relevance for the future. This raises a further set of questions
concerning the extent to which patterns of resistance or acquiescence are a
function of historical experience. Not only are Penan engaging in the production
of both public transcripts and hidden transcripts, they are also possessors and
deployers of prior transcripts. Such prior transcripts, both social and historical in
nature, configure contemporary transcripts.
In the preceding discussion, my goal has not been to form a precise definition
of what accounts for Eastern Penan resistance and Western Penan acquiescence
to logging but to try to frame what this difference might have to contribute to
theories of domination more broadly. Perhaps more than anything, the Western
Penan case stands as a kind of mirror for interpreting Eastern Penan resistance.
By considering both, I hope to have provided some perspective on the relations
between particular structures of domination, the historical context in which
those structures are embedded, the multiple dimensionalities of social contexts
and discursive sites, and the relation of these to forms of acquiescence and
resistance.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The research upon which this article is based could never have been undertaken
without the support and assistance of a great many people. Foremost I wish to
thank En. Lucas Chin and Dr Peter Kedit, past and present directors of the Sarawak
Museum, and Dr Hatta Solhee, formerly of the Sarawak State Planning Unit.
Many civil servants – Residents, District Officers and Sarawak Administrative
Officers – also provided invaluable assistance in Kapit, Belaga, Miri, and
Marudi. I am particularly indebted to those Penan in both the Belaga and Baram
Districts with whom I resided for most of my time in Sarawak. Without their
patience, generosity, and tolerance, this work could not have been undertaken.
I am especially indebted to Matu Tugang for his constant companionship on
our many travels, for the many insights that he provided on Penan language and
culture, and for his friendship. Special thanks must also go to Jayl Langub whose
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contributions to my work are incalculable. I must also thank Aram Yengoyan,

Ann Waters, and the anonymous reviewers for CSSH for their many valuable
comments on an earlier draft of this manuscript. Finally, I must thank my wife,
Ellen Walker, for the many insights that she provided on the material presented
here and for her superb editing. My research was supported by grants from the
Social Science Research Council (which supported both my research in the 1980s
and my more recent research), the National Science Foundation (Grant No.
BNS-8407062), the U.S. Department of Education (Fulbright-Hays), the L.S.B.
Leakey Foundation, the University of Georgia Research Foundation, and the
Body Shop Foundation (special thanks to Shane Kennedy for his efforts to help
me secure the latter). The support of each of these is gratefully acknowledged.
All responsibility for statements here is expressly mine.
NOTES
1. This discussion is based on three years of research among Western Penan (1984–
1987), seven months of research among nomadic and settled Eastern Penan in 1992
and 1993, interviews with rainforest activists in the United States, Canada, Europe,
the United Kingdom, Japan, and Malaysia from 1993 to the present, and interviews
with numerous Malaysian officials and timber industry representatives over the same
period.
2. Eastern and Western Penan in Sarawak together number some 7,000 individuals.
Eastern Penan total some 4,500 in approximately 50 communities, while Western
Penan total some 2,500 in approximately 20 communities. These figures are updated
from figures I have provided in previous publications, and reflect estimations of
population growth since 1987, when I carried out a census of Western Penan. There
are also several small, scattered groups of long-settled Penan: Penan Nyivung, Penan
Bok, Penan Suai, Penan Jelalong, and others. For more information on Penan in
Sarawak, see Arnold (1958), Brosius (1986, 1988a, 1990, 1991a, 1991b, 1992a, 1992b,
1993a, 1993b, 1995a, 1995b, 1995–96, and 1997), Harrisson (1949a), Huehne
(1959–60), Kedit (1978 and 1982), Langub (1972a, 1972b, 1974b, 1975, 1984,
1989, and 1990), Needham (1954a, 1954b, 1954c, 1954d, 1965, and in this volume),
Nicolaisen (1976a, 1976b, and 1978), and Urquhart (1951a, 1957, and 1959).
3. See Brosius (1990, 1991a, 1992a, and 1993a) and Needham [in this volume].
4. For instance, until logging began in the area in the early 1980s, the Belaga District
of Sarawak was over 90 per cent forested. Conspicuous exceptions are the extensively
deforested areas of the Baram and Limbang Districts occupied by Iban swiddeners.
5. Among both Eastern and Western Penan the trend towards sedentism has accelerated
greatly since about 1960. In 1960, I estimate that 70–80 per cent of all Eastern and
Western Penan were still nomadic. Of 7,000 Eastern and Western Penan today, fewer
than 400 Eastern Penan in the vicinity of the Magoh, Tutoh and upper Limbang
329
River areas remain fully nomadic, approximately 5 per cent of the total. The last
nomadic Western Penan settled in 1970.
6. I will not detail the relationship between government officials and logging interests
except to say that politicians and their families overwhelmingly hold rights to forest
concessions and profit from the activities of timber companies.
7. Many Penan, especially the nomadic groups, do not exactly know what the
government is. I have been asked by Penan on more than one occasion to explain the
meaning of the word ‘Malaysia’.
8. A source of particular resentment for Eastern Penan is the overwhelming presence of
police and company gangsters in the Baram and Limbang Districts. Since blockades
were first erected in 1987, timber companies have come to rely increasingly on the
presence of Chinese gangsters for security, and Eastern Penan live in great fear of
them. Numerous individuals have been assaulted, and Penan suspect gangsters in
several mysterious deaths in the past several years.
9. In defence of state civil servants, this is decidedly not the case. Despite recent
attempts by elected officials to politicise the civil service, the vast majority of civil
servants in Sarawak maintain a very high level of professionalism.
10. One cause of Penan frustration is that the power of district-level authorities to
adjudicate local disputes has eroded in recent years, particularly following the passage
of the 1988 Forest Ordinance. Before the advent of logging, District Officers had the
authority to arbitrate a wide range of local conflicts. As political pressures have been
exerted on the civil service in recent years by high-level proponents of the timber
industry, the power of local authorities has diminished. Today the Forest Department,
police, and timber companies have appropriated much of that authority. Yet Penan
and other local peoples are still expected to take their complaints to District Offices.
11. The break-up of this blockade was the most forceful yet. Tear gas was used and
several persons were severely beaten. One boy died as a result of the effects of tear
gas. The organisers of this blockade were forced to hide in the forest, and a reward
was offered for their capture. Since that time Eastern Penan in various parts of the
Baram District have continued sporadically to erect blockades.
12. Sarawak state law does not recognise Penan principles of land tenure. In contrast
to the longhouse communities of Kayan, Kenyah, and other ethnic groups, even
settled Penan generally lack the prerequisites to obtain legal recognition of land
claims. According to Sarawak land law, communities can only claim land which
they cultivated before 1958. However, the majority of Penan settled after that. Thus,
their claims to land are without legal basis. Nomadic groups are in an even more
difficult position with respect to land claims. Burials are one basis for the recognition
of Native Customary Rights land in longhouse communities. Because Penan graves
are scattered and are visible for only a few years, the government does not recognise
these as having any legal significance.
13. This does seem to be the case. On numerous occasions, government officials indicated
to me that they simply did not comprehend Penan concerns. One described how a
particular blockade made no sense to him because the people were not making any
demands: They were not asking for a longhouse, a water supply, or compensation but
330
were merely blocking the company. Another said: ‘We don’t know what they want.
They are just asking the company to go away’.
14. In 1983, Western Penan living in the upper Belaga River, working in concert with
members of a nearby Kenyah community, raided a timber camp along the Belaga
River after they were denied compensation by the logging company. A bridge across
the Belaga River was cut down with chainsaws and axes, and the camp manager was
forced to promise that compensation would be forthcoming.
15. Despite being the object of a massive manhunt by government authorities, Manser
was never successfully apprehended, largely because the Penan uniformly denied any
knowledge of his existence.
16. Mutang was arrested in February 1992, after bringing a Canadian MP to a
blockade site. The SIPA office was ransacked by police and the organisation was
disbanded.
17. The period of Brooke rule began in 1841 when British adventurer James Brooke
assumed control of the area surrounding the present-day Kuching in order to
establish a British presence on the island of Borneo and to suppress piracy and
headhunting. Between 1841 and 1946 (excepting the period of Japanese occupation
during World War II), Sarawak was ruled by three so-called ‘White Rajahs’: James
Brooke (1841–1868), his nephew Charles Brooke (1868–1917), and Charles’ son
Vyner Brooke (1917–1946). During the latter half of the nineteenth century, the
Brooke Raj continually extended its territorial holdings to encompass much of
the territory claimed by the Sultan of Brunei. The Rejang-Balui River was ceded to
the Brooke Raj in 1861, while the Baram was ceded in 1882.
18. This, of course, is not completely accurate. Though Malays (or Malay-Melanau)
are politically dominant in Sarawak, both state politics and the civil service are
conspicuously multiethnic, to a much greater degree than in peninsular Malaysia.
Hereafter, references to ‘Malay rule’ or ‘Malay government’ should be understood to
refer to the Penan conception of political authority.
19. In Sarawak, the phrase Orang Ulu is used to designate groups such as Kayan,
Kenyah, Kelabit, Berawan, Kajang, and other such central Bornean ethnic groups,
not including Iban. In most contexts Penan are classified as Orang Ulu, but for
present purposes I use this term to refer only to stratified, longhouse-dwelling
swidden agriculturalists.
20. This is no longer so much the case. Contemporary Penan have become increasingly
accustomed to visiting upriver towns such as Belaga and Marudi, though they still
consider them to be dangerous places.
21. In many colonial and post-colonial documents, Penan are referred to as Punan, and
there is a long history of debate over their proper designation (see Brosius 1992a and
Needham 1954b).
22. Belaga Station Diary (29 July 1940), p. 20.
23. For instance, on a visit to the Tutoh river area in April 1913, Resident 2nd Class H. D.
Aplin warned two Orang Ulu headmen not to trade with Penan ‘and told Penghulu
[a Government-appointed chief] Tama Saging to report to me if he heard […] of
331
anybody trying to break the regulations re Punans, as drawn up by the Hon’ble the
Resident, when the offenders would be severely punished’ (Aplin 1913: 120).
24. In both the Belaga and Baram Districts, persons travelling upriver were required to
register with District Offices. A ‘Prohibited Areas Ordinance’ was enacted by the
Sarawak Legislative Council (Council Negeri) in 1939. See Ritchie (1994: 124) and
Urquhart (1956: 292).
25. In 1950, for instance, Belaga District Officer Ian Urquhart visited Western Penan
in the upper Belaga River, saying that it had been a long time since these groups
had been contacted by government agents and that he thought it unlikely that they
would be visited in the next 18 months (Urquhart 1950: 279).
26. In the 18 June 1938 preface to the Belaga Station Diary, for instance, under the
heading ‘Duties of Upriver Agent, Belaga’, the District Officer lists 11 responsibilities.
The second of these is ‘Twice per annum to visit the Punans of Long Kajang and
make arrangements for their “meeting”. To supervise the Punan trading and to see
that produce is auctioned and sold fairly. To see that Punan are not cheated by local
traders’ (Belaga Station Diary, 18.6.38). See also Hudden (1936: 96).
27. For instance, Eastern Penan describe how they hear so much talk from the
government about development, and they contrast this with what they see of their
present situation. On one occasion, speaking with a group of Eastern Penan about
development, a man who was being sought by police and was in hiding in the forest,
responded sarcastically: ‘Development? Jail is our Development!’
28. None of this should not be taken to imply that environmentalists see themselves as
colonial agents. Indeed, I do not think that Western environmentalists are in any
sense aware of who Penan believe they are talking to.
29. See Richards (1981: 279) and Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka (1979: 542). The Bahasa
Malaysia equivalent is pemerintah.
30. These figures refer to band size prior to settlement. Both Eastern and Western Penan
communities tend to experience growth once they have settled. See Arnold (1958),
Needham [in this volume], and Urquhart (1951a).
31. Because all Western Penan are today settled, the traditional Western Penan settlement
system no longer exists. However, in many of its systemic aspects the present system
in more traditional communities differs little.
32. With the adoption of agriculture, boundaries have become more important in those
areas where communities are adjacent to each other.
33. Settled Eastern Penan may refer to themselves with reference to the locations of their
communities, but this is a recent innovation.
34. There is variation between communities in the degree of preference for first-cousin
marriage and in the percentage of such marriages. For instance, in a community of
86 persons, 7 of 21 marriages (33 per cent) were exogamous, while in a community
of 250 persons, only 5 of 58 marriages (9 per cent) were of this type. This variation
is in large part a function of group size: in larger communities it is possible to marry
more distant kin and still maintain community endogamy. First-cousin marriage
among Western Penan appears to be a recent phenomenon. Contemporary Western
332
Penan state unambiguously that first-cousin marriage was adopted only within the
past few decades, and they are able to point to many contemporary marriages that
would previously have been prohibited. It is difficult to determine why the status of
first-cousin marriage should have changed from a prohibited union to one that is, in
smaller communities at least, preferred. See Needham [in this volume].
35. Western Penan also practise reciprocal residence in such circumstances, but they
regard it very differently from Eastern Penan. Pressure is exerted on both the husband
and wife by their respective families to remain in their natal communities. Reciprocal
residence is always a compromise at best and never truly satisfactory to either party.
36. It should be noted that though the household is the primary unit of production,
members of different households cooperate frequently in subsistence activities.
37. Though today virtually all Eastern Penan (and many Western Penan) have converted
to Christianity, it is notable that Eastern Penan bands now often refer to themselves
by the Malay term sidang (council, board, assembly, and congregation).
38. Altogether the Eastern Penan style of social interaction differs markedly from that
of Western Penan. Both among themselves and in their interactions with outsiders,
Eastern Penan tend to be exceedingly soft spoken, with a shy, gentle bearing.
Western Penan, on the other hand, tend to speak strongly, deliberately, and with a
marked confidence. They are fond of biting sarcasm, and are given to frequent loud
arguments.
39. This is often manifested in matters such as the proper (or affectionate) use of personal
names, kinship terms or death names. Incorrect usages are taken to be indicative of
an utter lack of regard for the feelings of others. For a discussion of Penan death
names, see Brosius (1992a, 1995b, and 1995–1996).
40. For instance, several nomadic groups have threatened Penan from settled communities
who work for companies in their areas. One nomadic Penan leader circulated a letter
threatening that any Penan caught doing survey work in his area ‘will be shot with a
blowpipe: no discussion’.
333
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BKI Bijdragen tot de Land-, Taal- en Volkenkunde van Nederlandsch-Indië
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BRB Borneo Research Bulletin
CA Current Anthropology
CIFOR Center for International Forestry Research
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369
CONTRIBUTORS
J. Peter Brosius, Associate Professor, teaches Ecological and Environmental

Anthropology and heads the Conservation and Community Lab at the University
of Georgia. An Associate Editor of Human Ecology, he is also on the editorial
board of the American Anthropologist, and past President of the Anthropology and
Environment Section of the AAA. He is also a member of the IUCN Commission
on Economic, Environmental and Social Policy (CEESP) Co-Management
Working Group and the World Commission on Protected Areas/CEESP Theme
on Indigenous and Local Communities, Equity and Protected Areas (TILCEPA).
His recent research has focused on international environmental politics in Sarawak,
particularly in relation to Penan. He is now developing a research project on the
emergence of eco-regional planning in contemporary conservation. His work
has appeared in American Anthropologist, Current Anthropology, Ambio, Society
and Natural Resources, Comparative Studies in Society and History, Identities,
and Human Ecology, and he is completing a book entitled Arresting Images:
The Sarawak Rainforest Campaign and Transnational Environmental Politics.
Henry Chan obtained his Master of Philosophy from the Institute of Advanced
Studies, University of Malaya. After conducting research on the Punan Vuhang
of Kapit Division, he became a doctoral candidate at the Institute of East Asian
Studies, Universiti Malaysia Sarawak. From 1998 to March 2001, he was the
Socio-Economic Advisor to a Sustainable Forest Management Project, under the
collaboration of the German Agency for Technical Cooperation and the Sarawak
Forest Department. From June 2001 to April 2002, as a fellow of the Nippon
Foundation’s Asian Public Intellectuals, he carried out fieldwork in Thailand
and Indonesia on conflict management in forestry. He is now a researcher in the
Sarawak Forestry Corporation.
Kirk Endicott is a professor of anthropology at Dartmouth College. He has

done fieldwork with the hunting and gathering Batek of Peninsular Malaysia
intermittently since 1971, concentrating particularly on their religion, economy,
and social organisation. He is currently working on a book with his wife, Karen
370
Contributors
Lampell Endicott, on the egalitarian gender relations of the Batek. He is also

concerned with human rights issues affecting indigenous peoples, especially
those in Southeast Asia. His publications include An Analysis of Malay Magic
(1970), Batek Negrito Religion (1979), and Malaysia and the ‘Original People’
(as co-author with R.K. Dentan, A.G. Gomes, and M.B. Hooker, 1997).
He is also co-editor (with R.L. Welsch) of volumes on anthropology and cultural
anthropology in the ‘Taking Sides’ series.
Lars Kaskija is a Ph.D. candidate in Cultural Anthropology, Uppsala University,

Sweden. Between 1990 and 2001, he conducted extensive fieldwork among the
Punan of the Malinau and Tubu Rivers of East Kalimantan, and also worked
in Central Kalimantan. His interests include hunter-gatherer economics and
ecologies, and environmental conservation and culture. He is the author of
‘The Punan of Borneo. Cultural Fluidity and Persistency in a Forest People’, in
Voices of the Land: Identity and Ecology in the Margins. Lund Studies in Human
Ecology, A. Hornborg and M. Kurkiala (eds), Lund University Press, 1998;
Assessment of the Ut People in Central Kalimantan, European Commission,
2002; and Claiming the Forest. Punan Local Histories and Recent Developments in
Bulungan, East Kalimantan, CIFOR, 2002.
K.A. Klimut, born in 1949, is a Punan Tubu’ elder and community leader from
the village of Menabur Besar on the Menabur River, a tributary of the Tubu’
River in the Malinau Regency of northern East Kalimantan. Also a farmer,
forest-product collector, traditional healer, and ‘cultural broker,’ with insightful
understanding of the Punan’s history, current circumstances, and uncertain
future, he has been collaborating with R.K. Puri since 1997. He now lives with
other Punan Tubu’ in a resettlement village, Respen Sembuak, near the town
of Malinau. He often accompanies scientific expeditions in the area, and most
recently has worked with WWF Indonesia, the Wildlife Conservation Society,
and the Center for International Forestry Research on surveys and forest ecology
studies in his district.
Rodney Needham (retired, All Souls College, Oxford) has been a pioneering
researcher among the Penan in Sarawak, culminating initially in his D. Phil.
from Oxford University in 1953. Besides his many articles on the Penan, he
has written and edited a number of publications in the field of anthropology.
His edited works include Rethinking Kinship and Marriage (London: Tavistock
Press, 1971), and his authored books include Belief, Language, and Experience
371
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972), Essential Perplexities (Oxford:

Clarendon Press, 1978), Against the Tranquillity of Axioms (Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1983), and Mamboru. History and Structure in a Domain of
Northwestern Sumba (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987).
Mering Ngo, a Kayan Dayak born in West Kalimantan, graduated from the
University of Indonesia, Jakarta (1988), and the East-West Center, Honolulu
(Environmental Conflict Resolution Program), while working as a journalist.
As an anthropologist, he has 15 years’ experience in social development,
customary law analysis and advocacy, and environmental campaign programs
associated with USAID, DfID, World Bank, and FAO projects. He has also
served as an executive for WWF’s conservation campaign programs in West and
East Kalimantan. In 2001, he joined Assessment Group Indonesia (AGI) as a
senior consultant for environmental, social, and labour assessments. In 2004, he
became Corporate Responsibility Program coordinator with Unocal Indonesia,
and since 2005 he has been with Chevron. He has published widely in national
and international books and refereed journals, including ‘A New Perspective
on Property Rights: Examples from the Kayan of Kalimantan’, in Borneo in
Transition: People, Forests, Conservation, and Development, C. Padoch and
N.L. Peluso (eds), Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1996 (revised ed.
2003), and in newspapers and magazines.
Rajindra K. Puri received his Ph.D. in Anthropology from the University of

Hawai‘i and has been a degree fellow at the East-West Center’s Programme
on Environment. A Lecturer at the University of Kent at Canterbury, he teaches
environmental anthropology, ethnobotany, and development anthropology.
He has conducted research on ethnobiology and historical ecology among
Penan Benalui, Kenyah Badeng, and Punan Tubu’ in the uplands of East
Kalimantan since 1990. His interests include ethnobiology, historical ecology,
conservation social science methods, tropical forest ecology, and development
anthropology. He is currently working with colleagues in Kent on Interactive
methods for the study of transmission and acquisition of environmental knowledge,
a comparative study of basket making in Southeast Asia, and with colleagues at
CIFOR on Multidisciplinary Landscape Assessment. He authored The Bulungan
Ethnobiology Handbook (CIFOR, 2001), and Deadly Dances in the Bornean
Rainforest: Hunting Knowledge of the Penan Benalui (forthcoming). He wrote
this chapter while he was an Affiliate Fellow at the IIAS in Leiden, The
Netherlands. R.K.Puri@kent.ac.uk.
372
Contributors
Stefan Seitz obtained his Ph.D., on the subject of central African hunter-gatherers,
from the University of Freiburg, Germany (1970). He is currently a Professor in
Ethnology and Social Anthropology at the University of Freiburg. He carried out
fieldwork in Central Africa and in the Philippines among hunting and gathering
societies and has published widely in this area. Recently, he has been researching
‘coping strategies’ among the Aeta of Zambales, in the Philippines, following the
1998 eruption of Mt.Pinatubo. His publications include ‘Die Penan (Punan)’,
in Borneo. Mensch und Kultur seit ihrer Steinzeit, H. Harrer (ed.), Innsbruck:
Penguin-Verlag & Frankfurt/Main: Umschau-Verlag, 1988; Die Aeta am Vulkan
Pinatubo. Katastrophenbewältigung in einer Marginalen Gesellschaft auf den
Philippinen, Pfaffenweiler: Centaurus Verlag, Sozioökonomische Prozesse in
Asien und Afrika, Bd.3, 1998; ‘Coping strategies among an ethnic minority,
the Aeta in Zambales, the Philippines, after the eruption of Mt. Pinatubo’,
Disasters, 22 (1), 1998; and The Aeta at the Mt. Pinatubo, Philippines. A Minority
Group Coping with Disaster, Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 2004.
Bernard Sellato has been working in and on Borneo since 1973, first as a geologist
(M.Sc. 1973), and later as an anthropologist (Ph.D. 1987). He is the author of
Nomades et sédentarisation à Bornéo (Paris, 1989), Hornbill and Dragon. Arts and
Culture of Borneo (1989 and 1992), Nomads of the Borneo Rainforest (Honolulu,
1994), Borneo. People of the Rainforest (a cd-rom; Singapore, 1998), Forest,
Resources, and People in Bulungan (2001), Innermost Borneo. Studies in Dayak
Cultures (Singapore and Paris, 2002), and a number of articles in journals and
books, and the editor or co-editor of several other books, including Social Science
Research and Conservation Management in the Interior of Borneo: Unravelling
Past and Present Interactions of People and Forests (2003). He currently heads the
Institute for Research on Southeast Asia (CNRS and Université de Provence)
in Marseilles, France, and edits the journal Moussons. Social Science Research on
Southeast Asia.
Peter Sercombe worked in Borneo from 1982 to 2002. He is currently a senior

lecturer at Northumbria University, UK. His academic interests include cultural
maintenance and adaptation, multilingualism, and the sociolinguistics of language
use and language change, with particular reference to minority groups. His
publications include ‘Ethnolinguistic Change: Some Preliminary Observations
among the Penan of Brunei’, Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 152 (2),
1996; ‘Adjacent Cross-Border Iban Communities: A Comparison with Reference to
Language’, Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 155 (4), 1999; ‘Language
373
Maintenance and Shift: A Review of Theoretical and Regional Issues with Special
Reference to Borneo’, in Methodological Issues in Language Maintenance and Shift,
M. David (ed.), Berlin: Lang Verlag, 2002; and ‘Multilingualism among the Penans
of Brunei’, International Journal of Bilingualism, 7 (2), 2003.
Shanthi Thambiah is a social anthropologist, currently the Coordinator of the

Gender Studies Programme at the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, University
of Malaya, Kuala Lumpur. She received her Ph.D. from the University of Hull,
UK (1995), with a thesis on ‘Culture as Adaptation: Change among the Bhuket
of Sarawak.’ Her expertise is in the areas of indigenous tribal minority culture
and change, changing gender relations among the indigenous minorities of
Malaysia (Sarawak and Orang Asli), material culture of indigenous peoples of
Malaysia, and gender, family and work. She has published widely in these areas,
and her recent publications include ‘Household Formation and Egalitarian
Gender Relations among the Bhuket of Central Borneo’, Asian Journal of
Women’s Studies, 3 (3), 1997; ‘Orang Asli Women and Men in Transition’, in
Rethinking Malaysia: Malaysian Studies I, Jomo K.S. (ed.), Asia 2000, Hong
Kong, 1999; and ‘Transcending Gender Roles in the Domestic Realm: Some
Emerging Trends among Malaysian Families’, Asian Women, 9, 1999.
Robert A. Voeks received his Ph.D. in Geography from the University of

California, Berkeley, and has taught and researched in the USA, Southeast
Asia, and Brazil. He is currently Professor, Department of Geography, and
Director, Environmental Studies Program, at California State University,
Fullerton. His research interests include tropical biogeography, cultural ecology,
and ethnobotany. His publications include ‘The Scope of Hunter-Gatherer
Ethnomedicine’ (with P.G. Sercombe), Social Science & Medicine, 50, 2000;
‘Environmental Risk and Ethnobotanical Knowledge: Foragers and Farmers
in Northern Borneo’, in Nature’s Geography: New Lessons for Conservation in
Developing Countries, K. Zimmerer and K. Young (eds), Madison: University
of Wisconsin Press, 1998. His book, Sacred Leaves of Candomblé: African Magic,
Medicine, and Religion (1997), has received several awards. rvoeks@exchange.
fullerton.edu
374
INDEX
A B
Abai, 73, 114, 122, 140, 158 Bahau (P), 66, 72, 88
adat, 43, 64, 78, 80, 85, 87, 89, 123, 126, Bahau R., 12, 79, 130
127, 319, 321, 322 Bakun Hydroelectric Project, 108, 200, 211
agriculture, 6, 7, 13, 14, 24, 33, 52, 75, Baleh R., 12, 91, 93–99, 108, 109,
78, 92, 103, 114, 117, 130, 132, 140, 195, 196
189, 200, 250, 260, 332 Balui R., 52, 92, 94, 95, 98, 100, 108, 192,
swiddening, 17, 19, 22, 74, 92, 103, 193, 195, 196, 201, 223, 331
114, 116, 117, 120, 130, 139, 155, bamboo, 18, 22, 23, 55, 141, 148, 208,
166, 175, 206, 207, 208, 209, 242, 250
213, 217, 224, 231, 243, 247, banana, 207, 208, 217
248, 262, 263, 266, 268, 269, Baram R., 12, 41, 51, 52, 104, 181, 182,
283, 293, 331 184–186, 189, 200, 225, 230, 231, 235,
Agta, 3, 15, 26, 30, 36, 45, 185 258, 260, 265, 290, 293, 296–300,
alcohol, 28, 40, 144, 224, 239, 302, 304–307, 311, 328–332
244, 256 Barito R., 12, 62, 70, 71, 76, 129
animal husbandry, 48, 177, 179, 180, Basap, 12, 72, 104, 130
182, 187–190 Batak, 3, 114, 122
animals, 4, 18, 23, 48, 53, 54, 60, 95, Batu (P), 12, 72
119, 142, 165, 177–184, 186–191, behaviour, 28, 48, 86, 101, 119, 144, 147,
199, 202–204, 209, 210, 224, 167, 172, 177–179, 188, 191, 311
241, 248 code-switching, 29, 45, 149, 252
wild, 4, 51, 142, 179, 180, 182, 186, Beketan, 7, 12, 68, 73, 75, 79, 94, 96, 100,
188, 242, 248 104–106, 109
Aoheng, 12, 19, 70, 73, 74, 76, 79, 81, Bekumpai, 7, 76, 168
85, 96, 100, 161, 164, 165, Belaga, 100, 108, 189, 192, 199, 201,
169, 175 211–213, 225, 290, 293, 302,
Apo Kayan, 12, 62, 67, 70, 73, 109, 130, 304–307, 311, 312, 323, 328–332
133, 193, 195 Belait, 227, 229–232, 236, 240, 241, 243,
Apoh, 188, 228–230, 290, 305 244, 247–249, 253, 260, 266
assistance, 24, 33, 43, 44, 85, 86, 88, 116, Belayan R., 66, 68
136, 206, 218, 219, 288, 328 Benalui (P), 12, 130, 182
assistedness, 44, 88 Benuaq, 114, 122, 191
Austronesian, 1, 3, 6, 14, 15, 237 Berau, 12, 63, 66, 68, 72, 73, 114, 122, 129
autonomy, 16, 18, 27, 85, 87, 89, 153, Berawan, 182, 331
170, 171, 319, 320–323 Betung Kerihun National Park, 160, 161,
avoidance, 173, 204, 268, 281 163, 167, 174
375
birds’ nests, 21, 31, 33, 39, 43, 68, 70, 72, climate, 17, 18, 172, 201
79, 85, 114, 160, 161, 163–176 coal, 38, 114, 155
Bisaya’, 232, 254, 258, 266 collecting, 19, 21, 25, 26, 28, 31, 35, 39,
boundaries, 17, 19, 29, 62–64, 66, 75–78, 40, 64, 73, 75–79, 82, 83, 97, 114,
80, 102, 133, 134, 139, 140, 141, 132, 161, 166–168, 170, 172–175,
160, 161, 163, 174, 208, 217, 309, 202, 206, 210, 212, 213, 220, 233
311, 313, 318, 327, 332 collectors, 14, 19, 24, 25, 39, 75, 79, 83,
British, 32, 102, 196, 226, 230, 303, 111, 130, 142, 146, 149, 156, 175,
308, 331 195, 306
Brookes, 8, 96, 99, 108, 109, 195, 196, colonial
303, 304, 308, 331 administration, 31, 32, 80, 89, 137, 138,
Bugis, 6, 21, 122 292, 303, 304, 306, 307, 311, 324
Bukat, 7, 12, 47, 69, 70, 73, 77, 79, 81, period, 7, 32, 36, 39, 64, 72, 79, 80, 82,
91–97, 99, 104–106, 108, 109, 130, 303, 307, 309
161, 175, 189, 193, 196 colonial, pre-, 30, 61, 71, 77, 308
Bulungan, 62, 63, 66, 68, 85, 114, 122, commodities, 21, 151, 168, 212,
129, 131, 134, 155 214, 303
Busang (P), 106, 184, 186, 193, 201 competition, 39, 40, 42, 43, 83, 155, 156,
Busang R., 70, 73, 75 158, 166, 176, 254, 322, 323
Confrontation, 32, 196, 197
corruption, 132, 133, 322
C credit system, 22, 39, 88, 142, 145, 151,
canoe, 18, 166, 200, 209, 210, 218, 239, 156, 211–213, 237, 248
241, 250, 256 ijon, utang, 22, 88, 142, 156, 167, 168
cash crops, 93, 139, 141, 142, 150, 158 indebtedness, 303, 328
cocoa, 130, 139, 142 culture, 6, 14, 15, 16, 28, 46, 103, 105,
coffee, 130, 139, 142, 168, 210, 211 120, 133, 134, 148, 184, 228, 240,
caves, 12, 167, 168, 169, 171, 300 246, 253, 256–258, 261, 283, 328
Celebes, 2, 21, 114, 121 acculturation, 29, 149, 286
chicken, 23, 182, 183, 188–191, 199, 248, borrowing, 26, 310
260, 294 cultural broker, 112, 113, 239
children, 18, 20, 45, 46, 57, 84, 86, 108, innovation, 32, 34, 319, 332
112, 115–118, 131, 152, 159, 180, integration, 22, 37, 107, 238
183–186, 200, 210, 234, 238–241, internal, 28, 29
243, 247, 249, 252, 254, 255, 259, loss of, 29, 37
299, 314 material, 14, 22, 44, 283, 288
Chinese, 5, 21, 22, 88, 114, 145, 164, revitalisation, 46
167–171, 174, 181, 230, 236, 237, taboos, 235, 243, 284, 285
241, 330 customary law, 43, 78, 87, 169, 171, 221
Christianity, 8, 59, 112, 116, 130, 131,
137, 148, 149, 183, 196, 197, 199,
D
246, 259, 261, 266, 333
CIFOR (Center for International Forestry dancing, 195, 213, 243, 259, 306
Research), 155, 157, 158 death, 23, 56, 60, 101, 183, 197, 199, 201,
client-patron relationship, 22, 30, 72, 75, 219, 231, 234, 245, 255, 257, 266,
132, 142, 159 318, 320, 333
376
Index
deforestation, 38, 41, 147, 261, 286, 289, subsistence, 4, 13, 15, 16, 18–20,
293, 295, 301 24–26, 36, 38, 39, 74, 77–79, 91,
depletion, 40, 41, 83, 202 92, 96, 103, 130, 133, 139, 140, 141,
development, 1, 2, 15, 23, 29, 32, 33, 146, 169, 180, 210, 222, 235, 247,
35–37, 45, 46, 48, 49, 85, 86, 89, 250, 256, 260, 262–264, 266, 267,
101, 113, 131, 133, 135, 136, 147, 283, 285, 287, 291, 293, 333
152, 153, 160, 161, 171, 173–175, wage labour, 26, 35, 40, 86, 93, 103,
200, 215, 218, 225, 263, 307, 320, 111, 133, 135, 136, 141, 146, 148,
322, 332 150, 233, 255
projects, 160, 161, 320, 322 education, 32, 36–38, 41, 46, 85, 87, 88,
diet, 17, 18, 165, 167, 188, 207, 217, 247 111, 112, 116–118, 131, 133, 139,
carbohydrates, 17, 141 149, 150, 156, 185, 186, 200, 211,
energy, 17, 112, 215 232, 234, 238, 239, 243, 244,
proteins, 142, 180, 190, 191, 204, 209, 248–254, 256, 260, 261, 267,
249, 285 320, 321
divorce, 219, 220, 236 egalitarianism, 3, 16, 20, 26, 27, 29, 74,
dogs, 4, 18, 23, 34, 54, 184, 185, 187, 295 87, 93, 165, 233, 245, 256, 260
domestication, 4, 189, 204, 248, 263, 264, emotions, 113, 179, 180, 188, 190
267, 268, 287 encroachment, 108, 173, 174
pets, 48, 51, 55, 177–181, 183–187, environment, 1, 3, 16, 17, 41, 44, 45, 59,
189, 242, 258 84, 86, 131, 134, 139, 142,
Dusun, 230–232, 236–239, 241–243, 145–147, 149, 151, 165, 179, 197,
247–251, 255, 256, 258–262, 201, 203, 224, 239, 246, 247, 311
265–269, 280–288 ecology, 1, 16, 17, 111, 130, 136, 155,
Dutch, 8, 32, 50, 71, 79, 80–82, 89, 99, 163, 181, 201, 203, 254, 267, 314
137, 138, 148 ecosystems, 163, 224, 267
environmentalism, 1, 33, 44, 84, 130, 149,
292, 300–302, 324
E ethnicity, 1, 11, 31, 71, 74, 75, 102, 118,
economics, 1–3, 5, 13–17, 19, 20, 22, 132, 196, 253, 259, 319
25–28, 30, 31, 33, 35–39, 41, ethnobotany, 18, 44, 263–265, 267–269,
45–48, 53, 61, 62, 72, 74, 75, 77, 282, 283, 285–288
79, 82, 84–88, 91, 92, 96, 101, 112, ethnonyms, 4, 6, 7, 11, 12, 30, 47, 61, 91,
130–133, 135, 136, 139, 141, 142, 93, 101, 105, 106, 240, 245
144, 146–150, 155, 157, 159, 160, extinction, 14, 40, 84, 181
163, 165, 166, 170, 172–175, extraction, 2, 24, 148, 230, 263,
178–180, 184, 187–192, 201, 202, 266, 285
204, 209, 210, 213–215, 219, 228, extractivism, 83, 176
235, 247–251, 254, 256, 257, 259,
266, 286, 293, 303, 311
F
cash income, 144, 155, 173, 235,
248, 257, 298 festivals, 49, 117, 125, 182, 191, 197, 239,
money, 117, 118, 121, 132, 133, 135, 244, 256
136, 144, 148, 153–155, 168, 170, fishing, 18, 51, 190, 209, 249
182, 197, 224, 235, 249, 260, 300, food, 17, 18, 20, 23, 24, 26, 35, 41, 42,
310, 322 52, 54, 77, 78, 83, 96, 119, 130,
377
141–143, 146, 147, 151, 167, headhunting, 20, 25, 32, 53, 59, 67, 94,
178–180, 182, 186, 188, 189, 195, 96, 115, 116, 132, 195, 201, 214,
196, 202–204, 206, 208–210, 246, 309, 332
213–215, 217, 223, 233–235, 242, health, 18, 32, 36, 37, 41, 52, 88, 152,
246, 247, 250, 262, 264, 281, 282, 200, 211, 234, 235, 243, 284
285, 287, 288, 306, 318 care, 152, 200
staple foods, 17, 18, 54, 141, 164, diseases, 59, 60, 152, 199, 243, 264,
205–207, 210, 216 283–285, 287, 288
storage, 53, 143, 147, 283 drugs, 40, 211–213
footpaths, 89, 98, 104, 226, 231, 248, 256, epidemics, 108, 232
259, 283 hospitals, 152, 211
foraging, 20, 46, 49, 96, 112, 129, 161, malaria, 152, 199
168, 177–179, 204, 209, 229, 259, history, 9, 19, 26, 28, 30, 31, 34, 39, 43,
260, 262–265, 268, 269, 283, 285, 45, 76, 92, 94, 96, 101, 107, 109,
287, 289, 293, 312, 313, 318 119, 130, 139, 151, 165, 174, 181,
forest products, 19, 21, 22, 24, 25, 30, 31, 192, 195, 214, 228, 238, 254, 292,
38–41, 45, 53, 55, 64, 66, 70, 72, 73, 294, 296, 313, 331
75–77, 79–82, 87, 111, 114, 119, memory, 26, 245, 294, 307
130, 132, 134–136, 139, 141, 142, horticulture, 14, 15, 19, 25, 26, 76, 139,
148, 151, 160, 164, 166, 174, 175, 141, 264
186, 222, 260, 262, 269, 303, 306 houses, 7, 24, 34, 53, 95, 96, 115, 116,
bezoar, 53, 55, 181, 237, 251, 258 120, 132, 139, 145, 153, 156, 164,
damar, 55, 119, 142, 237, 303 169, 200, 211, 218, 242, 295, 307
honey, 18, 22, 130, 141, 159, 178 Hovongan, 12, 69, 106, 161, 164–166,
illipe, 130, 175 170, 171, 175
forestry laws, 220, 225, 226, 297 hunting, 1–3, 4, 7, 8, 13–19, 23, 24, 26–29,
fruits, 19, 95, 130, 142, 143, 146, 147, 155, 31–34, 36, 41, 47–49, 54, 55, 58, 61,
175, 176, 182, 201–204, 207, 208, 62, 74, 79, 81, 86, 88, 91–93, 96,
210, 215–218, 221, 223, 239, 241, 103–107, 117, 119, 139, 141–144,
244, 249, 259, 267, 280, 285, 146, 147, 149–151, 153, 157, 159, 161,
293, 312 165, 170, 175, 177–192, 195, 196, 199,
200, 202–204, 206, 209, 210, 212–216,
222–224, 226, 229, 231, 236–238, 243,
G
244, 246–250, 252, 253, 255, 256, 259,
gardening, 35, 96, 112, 114, 117, 120, 262–266, 268, 269, 283, 286–288, 290,
130, 165, 175, 208 293, 303, 314
genealogies, 52, 55, 258, 294, 314, blowpipe, 3, 23, 54, 182, 184, 215, 216,
316, 325 235, 238, 241, 262, 333
Geng (P), 73, 79, 181, 184, 312 bow and arrow, 3, 18, 23
gold, 26, 38, 70, 83, 88, 114, 159, 166 deer, 51, 59, 130, 142, 181, 183
firearms, 54, 209, 210, 266, 293, 306,
307, 309
H game, 48, 54, 132, 140, 144, 165,
handicrafts, 3, 22, 26, 53–55, 151, 159, 177–187, 190, 191, 203, 204, 209,
211, 212, 242, 243, 251, 303 210, 216, 235, 238, 241, 243, 247,
Haput (P), 12, 66, 130 249, 250, 262, 266, 293, 314, 317
378
Index
spear, 23, 54, 183, 262 K
traps, 18, 184, 209, 210, 238, 247,
249, 283 Kajang R., 192, 195, 197, 205, 210,
wild boar, 18, 54, 139, 142–144, 178, 226, 332
181–183, 185, 186, 190, 204, 209, Kapit, 94, 96–99, 108, 192, 196, 200, 201,
210, 235, 247, 249, 260 213, 307, 328
Kapuas R., 6, 12, 62, 63, 69, 73, 88, 91,
93, 94, 96, 97, 99, 108, 160, 161,
I 163, 164, 189
Iban, 19, 27, 31, 51–53, 58, 67, 73, 75, 79, Kayan, 27, 31, 43, 51, 52, 63, 66, 67, 70,
94–99, 108, 109, 169, 170, 181, 182, 72–74, 76, 79, 93, 94, 96, 99, 105,
184, 192, 195, 196, 201, 205, 225, 106, 109, 114, 122, 129–131, 133,
226, 231–233, 235–239, 241, 242, 140, 155, 164, 175, 181, 184, 189,
244, 247–252, 254–256, 258–261, 191–193, 195, 196, 199, 205, 206,
266, 286, 306, 310, 329, 331 210, 219, 225, 262, 301, 305, 319,
identity, 16, 26, 27, 30, 32, 48, 75, 76, 330, 331
81, 92, 102, 103, 105–108, 153, Kelabit, 46, 51, 182, 259, 331
157, 159, 245, 256, 259, 312, 313, Kelai, 12, 63, 66, 70, 73, 104, 130
319, 325 Kenyah, 13, 19, 51, 53–55, 59, 67, 68,
awareness, 30, 41, 42, 46, 87, 104, 107, 73–75, 79, 81, 94, 105, 106, 109, 114,
150, 156, 301 122, 131, 134, 140, 144, 179, 181,
ideology, 15, 16, 27, 28, 35–37, 45, 47–49, 182, 184–186, 191, 193, 195–197,
74, 75, 83–85, 87, 88, 93, 112, 129, 246, 258, 262, 305, 331
132, 133, 147, 148, 150, 159, 170, Kerayan, 66, 111, 131
187, 256, 327 Kereho, 7, 11, 12, 69, 70, 73, 75, 106,
image, 30, 33, 36, 45, 47, 86, 88, 131, 170, 182, 189
133, 294, 296, 311 kinship, 20, 74, 160, 175, 245, 253, 258,
incense wood, 21, 33, 39, 82–84, 86, 313, 327, 333
114, 119, 122, 127, 130, 139, 142, knowledge, environmental, 9, 18, 43,
144, 145, 151, 155, 156, 164, 44, 263, 264, 269, 282, 283, 285,
166, 237 287, 288
Independence period, post-, 29, 71, Kuching, 5, 6, 22, 212, 218, 261, 331
307, 331
indigenous peoples, 1, 4, 36, 37, 41–44,
47, 50, 52, 59, 60, 84, 85, 89, 129,
L
130, 136, 137, 145, 152, 171, 173, labour, 26, 31, 35, 72, 73, 75, 120, 142,
176, 181, 226, 246, 266, 290, 293, 143, 151, 155, 158, 166, 178, 206,
296, 301, 302, 327 207, 237, 248, 250, 256
individualism, 48, 87, 153, 170 delayed return, 26, 87, 143
Islam, 6, 7, 129, 238, 240, 247, 248, immediate return, 27, 28, 82, 143, 147,
255–257, 259, 266, 267 150, 151, 153, 178
land, 17, 35, 37, 39, 42, 47, 55, 60, 61,
64, 65, 78–80, 83, 87, 90, 113, 114,
J
116, 117, 131, 132, 134, 139, 147,
jackfruit, 18, 208 155, 158, 159, 161, 174, 190, 193,
Java, 5, 114, 131, 173 205–208, 210, 214, 216, 218–223,
379
226, 232, 238, 240, 248, 254, 256, Malay, Melayu, 5, 6, 7, 52, 93, 103, 106, 108,
266, 294, 297, 298, 300–302, 309, 114, 122, 129, 164, 168, 230, 236, 240,
312, 313, 315, 316, 318, 330 244, 245, 251, 252, 254–256, 266, 267,
tenure, 219, 312, 318, 330 303, 308–310, 331, 332
titles, 42, 149, 221 Malinau, 9, 12, 29, 49, 62–66, 70, 73, 76,
landscape, 26, 33, 44, 86, 107, 223, 267, 79, 81, 88, 110, 112, 114, 116, 120,
283, 288, 294, 313, 315 122, 125, 127, 129–132, 135–137,
languages, 1–3, 6–10, 12, 13–15, 29, 139–141, 143–152, 154–159, 190,
38, 46, 50, 51, 53, 76, 94, 109, 111, 229, 305
112, 115, 130, 131, 145, 149, 158, Manser, B., 9, 84, 152, 186, 300, 302, 324,
159, 161, 164, 165, 228, 230, 239, 331
251–255, 258, 259, 265, 266, 291, marginalisation, 21, 37, 41
319, 328 markets, 21, 22, 29, 32, 34–36, 38, 43, 55,
leadership, 20, 26, 87, 97, 100, 112, 115, 77, 79, 82–84, 132, 138, 142, 150,
163, 165, 171, 174, 315 156, 160, 171, 176, 189, 210, 212,
authority, 29, 32, 43, 50, 80, 165, 214, 215, 242, 261, 287, 303
169, 171, 172, 174, 233, 308, coastal, 19, 21, 30, 39, 72, 82
327, 330, 331 international, 160, 293
Limbang, 41, 52, 181, 232, 244, 251, 255, marriage, 20, 23, 57, 58, 73, 112, 116,
265, 266, 290, 293, 294, 299, 300, 131, 141, 158, 164, 182, 193, 219,
302, 330 235, 238, 254, 258, 259, 314–318,
Linau R., 195, 197, 201, 222, 223, 224 325, 332-333
Lisum, 7, 12, 67, 68, 73, 77, 94, 104–106, intermarriage, 20, 25, 75, 140, 189,
109, 225, 226 238, 258
logging, 9, 29, 33, 40–42, 119, 147, Marudi, 229, 301, 328, 331
152, 155, 159, 181, 189, 192, 200, Mbuti, 29, 147, 257, 265
201, 212–215, 222–225, 231, 238, meat, 18, 48, 130, 142, 143, 144, 146,
289–293, 295–302, 308–311, 323, 155, 177–182, 186–191, 204, 209,
324, 326–331 224, 235, 247, 249, 266, 306, 314
acquiescence, 41, 42, 291, 292, 293, Melanau, 7, 100, 108, 109, 331
299, 302, 324, 325, 328 Mendalam R., 70, 73, 79, 91, 93, 98,
blockades, 295, 296, 300, 301, 99, 161
308, 331 Mentarang, 12, 43, 64, 73, 114, 117, 122,
concessions, 38, 119, 330 124, 125, 129, 130, 131, 133, 155, 158
resistance, 19, 28, 41, 42, 45, 95, 200, Merah (P), 11, 12, 68, 73
289–293, 295, 297–302, 324, 325, Merap, 73, 74, 76, 79, 81, 114, 122, 140,
327, 328 158
Lundayeh, 51, 114, 122 metals, 3, 15, 22, 25, 34, 54, 72, 74, 145,
Lusong (P), 181, 184, 200, 313 159, 258, 303
migration, 10, 11, 14, 31, 64, 67, 73, 77,
94–96, 98, 101, 108, 109, 112, 116,
M 202, 241, 245
Magoh, 182, 188, 259, 305, 329 military, 8, 32, 111, 118, 131, 160, 165,
Mahakam R., 6, 12, 62, 66, 67, 70, 72, 73, 168, 169–171, 173, 196, 226, 236
76, 79, 91, 93, 96, 97, 100, 114, 121, mining, 33, 88, 114, 119, 151, 155, 159,
129, 130, 189, 195 166, 167
380
Index
minorities, 1, 5, 35, 36, 42 284, 289–293, 296–303, 306–319,
Miri, 212, 251, 302, 328 321–324, 327–330, 332, 333
mobility, 18, 25, 26, 27, 153, 164, 170, 178, Western, 9, 12, 29, 42, 51–54, 56, 58,
190, 202, 204, 211, 226, 251, 254 60, 66, 104, 158, 260, 265, 289–293,
Modang, 74, 114, 122 295, 296–300, 302–304, 306–309,
modernisation, 1, 9, 135, 136 311–333
Müller Mts, 12, 63, 69, 70, 71 Philippines, 2, 6, 15, 26, 42, 45, 185, 265
Mulu, 9, 182, 185, 188, 189, 229 pig, 51, 120, 130, 182, 183, 187–191, 199,
Murung, 12, 62, 71, 73, 75 262, 285, 293, 306, 310
music, 23, 244, 283 plantation estates, 33, 37, 38, 155, 159
oil palm, 37, 38, 155, 261
rubber, 38, 55, 230, 237, 247, 305
N plants, 4, 44, 112, 114, 142, 158, 202,
naming systems, 32, 245, 256, 257, 263 207, 208, 215, 217, 262, 265, 268,
nature conservation, 33, 84 269, 281, 283–288
parks & reserves, 33, 42, 43, 119, medicinal, 44, 112, 114, 142, 158,
161, 163 181, 262, 264, 269, 280, 281, 284,
NGOs, 33, 35, 41, 43–45, 47, 84–88, 90, 287, 288
136, 149, 150, 152, 155, 157, 158, Pnan-ness, 27, 29, 30, 89, 153, 266
170, 172–174, 225, 302 poisons, 18, 95, 215, 216, 293
advocacy, 9, 33, 34, 62, 84, 90 politics, 1, 2, 5, 13, 14, 16, 20–22, 25, 27,
grassroots, 33, 86, 87 30, 31, 34–37, 40, 41, 42, 46, 47, 71,
ICDP, 43, 160, 161 72, 74, 87, 89–91, 101, 112, 118,
Niah, 14, 52, 173, 176, 258 130, 131, 133, 136, 139, 153, 156,
157, 172–176, 193, 214, 237, 253,
259, 260, 289, 292, 296, 308, 311,
O 312, 314, 319, 321, 324, 328,
omen, 24, 54, 183, 187, 225 330, 331
opportunism, 28, 33, 135, 136, 148, pollution, 223, 224, 249
153, 170 population, 1, 3, 5, 12, 14, 15, 19, 40,
Orang Asli, 2, 15 51, 52, 65–68, 70, 71, 92, 114,
Orang Ulu, 303, 304, 309, 315, 331 119, 128, 130, 132, 137, 138,
Ot Danum, 70, 73, 75 145, 152, 157, 167, 172, 182,
overexploitation, 40, 215, 250 204, 223, 232, 259, 264, 283,
ownership, property, 35, 37, 39, 53, 55, 57, 285, 288, 314, 329
80, 83, 120, 144, 145, 160, 164, 170, power relations, 72, 160, 173, 325, 326
171, 172, 178, 184, 185, 201, 202, vassal & overlord, 7, 22, 30, 55, 72, 159
214, 215, 217, 218, 313 pressures, 20, 29, 43, 138, 167, 171, 202,
private, 35, 169, 215, 216, 217, 226 235, 287, 314, 330
prestige, 74, 83, 87, 136, 146, 148, 149,
165, 185, 259
P goods, 74, 83, 87, 146
Penan Pujungan, 62, 66, 131
Eastern, 12, 29, 41, 42, 45, 51–54, Putuk, 116, 123, 131, 144
57–60, 185, 227–232, 234–237, 240, Putussibau, 63, 69, 70, 161, 163,
242, 244–247, 256, 258–260, 265, 168–173, 175, 176
381
R rights, 34, 223

land, 90, 220, 221, 226
rainforest, 3, 11, 16, 17, 19, 25, 33, 35, 37, usufruct, 78, 165
44, 51, 161, 165, 189, 190, 201, 205, rituals, 23, 24, 27, 58, 116, 182, 191, 195,
230, 234, 238, 247, 249, 250, 256, 197, 199, 200, 234, 235,
290, 296, 301, 311, 329 244–246, 256, 284, 318
Dipterocarps, 17, 202, 262, 266, 267, roads, 38, 154–156, 159, 201, 213–215,
285, 287 222, 223, 231, 254, 260, 293, 295,
Ratah, 12, 13, 71, 72 296, 299
rattan, 82, 83, 86, 94, 97, 114, 142, roots & tubers, 13, 18, 20, 207, 217, 250
151, 159, 176, 183, 185, 197, 199, cassava, 54, 141, 207, 247
210–213, 220, 222, 241–243, 267, taro, 130, 207
293, 303
Rejang R., 12, 52, 93, 94–98, 100, 108,
109, 181–183, 191, 331
S
religion, 2, 7, 24, 59, 149, 197, 199, 246,
259, 287 Sabah, 1, 5, 6, 31, 114, 121, 133, 176
beliefs, 23, 24, 84, 115, 187, 243, 245, sago, 13, 15, 18–20, 24, 51, 54, 77, 78, 83,
246, 253, 256, 259 106, 119, 120, 134, 141, 164, 165,
shamans, 60, 284 176, 178, 189, 201, 202, 204, 207,
soul, 23, 60, 66, 67, 83, 243 208, 214–217, 247, 248, 250, 256,
spirits, 23, 59, 60, 116, 147, 168, 183, 260, 262, 266, 285, 293, 312, 314
193, 195, 246, 268 palms, 15, 20, 54, 77, 141, 201, 204,
residence, 26, 34, 77, 175, 235, 238, 257, 215, 250, 260, 293
300, 314, 316, 317, 318, 333 starch, 18, 141, 204, 207, 215
resources, 1, 3, 5, 9, 14, 17, 18, 20, stewardship, 19, 313
23–25, 31, 33, 35, 37–44, 45, 55, Sahabat Alam Malaysia, 221, 301, 302
64, 72, 75, 77, 78, 83–88, 111, 130, Segah, 12, 63, 66, 68, 70, 73, 130
132, 133, 136, 139, 141–144, Sekatak, 12, 66, 71, 72
146–152, 161, 163, 165, 167, 168, Sembuak, 110, 116, 118, 120, 124,
170, 172–176, 178–180, 184, 185, 125, 127, 130–132, 137, 140,
189, 192, 201, 202, 204, 214–217, 155, 156, 157
219, 220, 222–224, Semukung, 164, 175
226, 249, 250, 254, 256, 260, 264, Seputan, 12, 164, 175, 182, 189
280, 286–288, 293, 311–313 Sesayap, 73, 110, 129, 131
access to, 3, 41, 87 settlement, 5, 18, 31, 32, 34, 39, 40, 70,
natural, 40, 42, 62, 163, 176, 81, 94, 99, 108, 115, 139, 169,
230, 260 171, 174, 175, 190, 197, 199, 207,
rhinoceros, 55, 84, 181, 186, 303 208, 210, 214, 216–218, 225, 230,
rice, 5, 6, 13–15, 19, 24–27, 33, 39, 48, 232, 247, 249, 256–258, 260, 261,
54, 74–76, 82, 83, 92, 95, 97, 99, 283, 284, 286, 288, 291, 307,
103, 115, 117, 120, 130, 133, 134, 312–314, 332
139, 140, 141, 143, 146, 166, 168, resettlement, 26, 38, 40, 64, 68, 110,
175, 182, 189, 190, 200, 205–208, 112, 128, 130, 137, 139, 155, 156
210, 217, 218, 234–238, 243, 244, sedentarism, 2, 3, 7, 13, 31, 34, 39, 40,
247–249, 256, 260, 262, 263, 266, 44, 48, 78, 103, 105–107, 161, 164,
268, 281, 283, 286, 299 175, 177, 180, 183, 187–192, 195,
382
Index
197, 204, 210, 214, 216, 227, 231, status, 27, 55, 74, 81, 101, 112, 132, 133,
239, 251, 258, 260, 286, 329 140, 163, 165, 180, 182, 211, 233,
settling down, 26, 48, 100, 197, 237, 239, 244, 253, 254, 256–258,
201, 210 314–316, 318, 320, 322, 332
sharing, 23, 27, 28, 35, 55, 106, 110, 112, Sukang, 227–261, 265, 266, 268,
113, 121, 131, 134, 143, 144, 146, 284, 286
178, 202, 203, 213, 217, 233, 235, sultanates, 1, 5, 6, 7, 129
249, 266, 288, 290
demand sharing, 28, 145, 146, 226
T
Sihan, 97, 105, 106, 109, 193
Silat, 53, 290, 302 Tabang, 12, 39, 62, 63, 66, 68, 70, 77
slavery, 12, 22, 25, 31, 32, 58, 72, 73, 75, tax, 32, 176, 304, 305
80, 96, 115, 305, 326 Tebilun, 73, 76
social organisation, 2, 3, 14, 16, 25, 27, 31, technology, 18, 25, 255, 291
103, 140, 228, 238, 240, 257, 265, tenure, 39, 42, 47, 84, 87, 131, 132, 163,
291, 312, 327 192, 219, 318
band, 11, 16, 20, 34, 73, 75, 76, 79, 97, of resources, 9, 43, 84, 161, 192,
101, 107, 139, 144, 153, 154, 164, 215, 220
165, 170, 171, 175, 204, 215, 229, rights of, 43, 45, 89
230, 291, 300, 303, 312–319, 332 territory, territoriality, 3, 17, 20, 24–26,
extended family, 34, 175, 231, 234 33, 35–37, 39–43, 51, 53, 55, 61,
nuclear family, 16, 20, 34, 35, 42, 62, 64, 66, 68, 70, 71, 75, 76–81,
234, 316 86, 87, 89, 95, 96, 100, 108, 153,
Sru, 94, 108, 109 170, 171, 176, 192, 193, 196,
state, 1, 5, 7, 8, 16, 29, 36, 37, 38, 41, 42, 210, 214, 224, 229, 312, 315,
49, 52, 82, 88, 89, 93, 95, 104, 107, 318, 331
131, 132, 135, 172–174, 176, 192, Thailand, 2, 3, 17, 19, 237
200, 201, 206, 212, 218, 221, 223, timber, 21, 33, 37–39, 41, 42, 81, 82,
226, 229, 233, 239, 249, 251, 253, 88, 113, 114, 119, 130, 136, 142,
286, 294, 305, 307, 308, 319, 320, 145, 148, 150, 151, 153–155,
330–333 160, 164, 166, 174, 175, 214,
administration, 7, 8, 32, 36, 37, 38, 62, 220, 222, 224, 232, 241, 262,
80, 81, 96, 99, 108, 129, 136, 138, 266, 280, 283, 289, 293, 295,
149, 171 297–300, 302, 310, 311, 322–325,
agencies, 33, 45, 85, 170, 171, 176 330, 331
government, 32, 33, 36, 37, 39, 40, 41, Tinjar R., 51, 52
45, 52, 53, 55, 62, 64, 65, 78, 82, 85, tobacco, 23, 144, 151, 164, 168, 208,
87, 88, 97, 100, 106–108, 113–116, 210, 211, 217, 230, 247, 258,
118, 119, 128, 129, 131–133, 138, 303, 306
141, 148–150, 160, 165, 168, 170, tools, 23, 25, 209, 210, 212, 213, 218,
171, 173, 176, 195, 199–201, 209, 249, 283
211, 218, 221, 223, 225, 232, 233, Toraja, 6, 114, 122
239–241, 243, 248, 259, 260, 266, tourism, 26, 46, 47, 149, 166, 261
290, 292, 295–297, 299, 305–311, trade, 3, 7, 16, 19, 21, 22–25, 30, 31, 32,
320, 321, 322, 325, 328–332 38–40, 42, 53–55, 68, 71–78, 80, 82,
nation-state, 30, 35, 225 83, 87, 88, 93, 99, 129, 130, 135,
383
136, 141, 144, 145, 161, 163–165, V

174–176, 186, 189, 193, 197, 200,
210–213, 224, 227, 230, 235, 247, variation, 10, 29, 93, 139, 140, 142, 143,
250, 251, 255, 258, 286, 293, 157, 167, 175, 263, 283, 288, 313,
303–307, 309, 311, 332 318, 332
barter, 22, 72, 184, 189, 210, 211, 212, variability, 107, 143
222, 227, 230, 247, 305, 307 Vuhang (P), 192, 193, 195–197, 199–226
Chinese traders, 22, 88, 167–171
middlemen, 22, 25, 39, 54, 150, 156, W
160, 164, 168, 171, 175
prices, 21, 53, 86, 140, 142, 148, war, 14, 73, 79, 96, 97, 99, 131, 132, 193,
155, 159, 168, 176, 189, 210, 196, 201, 214
212, 235, 238 raiding, 20, 25, 79, 94, 100, 115, 116
relations, 3, 30, 72, 79 wealth, 35, 39, 62, 88, 114, 145–147, 152,
Tubu’, 9, 12, 28, 29, 40, 42–44, 48, 182, 233, 247, 257, 303
63–66, 73, 76–79, 88, 110–112, 115, World Wide Fund for Nature, 89, 111,
116, 118, 121, 122, 124, 125, 129, 130, 133, 155, 157, 163, 174
130, 132–137, 139–141, 145, 148,
150, 152, 154–158, 182, 183, 190
Tutoh, 228–230, 290, 294, 300,
Y
304–306, 310, 329, 331 Yayasan Adat Punan, 115, 117, 122, 129,
Tutong, 229, 232, 236 130, 157
384

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2007 Beyond The Green Myth. Borneo S Hun

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BEYOND THE GREEN MYTH

BEYOND THE GREEN MYTH

Borneo’s Hunter-Gatherers in the Twenty-First Century

Sercombe_reprint-pbk-cover.indd 1 07/06/2010 14:44

16. Leadership on Java Hans Antlöv and Sven Cederroth (eds)

First published in 2007 by NIAS Press

Typesetting by Hurix Systems Private Ltd, Mumbai, India

© Nordic Institute of Asian Studies 2007

While copyright in the volume as a whole is vested in the Nordic Institute of

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Beyond the green myth : Borneo’s hunter-gatherers in the

1. Introduction: Borneo, Hunter-Gatherers, and Change 1

3. Resourceful Children of the Forest: The Kalimantan Punan

4. The Emergence of the Ethnic Category Bhuket:

5. The Punan from the Tubu’ River, East Kalimantan:

6. Stuck at the Bottom: Opportunity Structures

7. Nested Disputes: Building Mediation Procedures

8. Game, Pets, and Animal Husbandry among Penan

9. History and the Punan Vuhang: Response to

10. Continuity and Adaptation among the Penan of Brunei 227

11. Penan Ethnobotany: Subsistence Strategy and

12. Prior Transcripts, Divergent Paths: Resistance and

1.1. Area of Known Past and Present

1.2. Location of Groups Studied 10

3.1. Location of Three Clusters Studied 63

3.2. The Malinau River Area 65

3.3. The Kayan-Tabang-Segah-Kelai Area 67

3.4. The Upper Kapuas River Area 69

4.1. Bukat Settlements 93

5.1. Punan Tubu’ Settlements 111

6.1. Punan Malinau Settlements 138

7.1. The Bungan Area 162

9.1. Punan Vuhang Exploitation Grounds During

9.2. Sedentary Punan Vuhang Regular Exploitation Grounds 198

10.1. Location of Penan Sukang 228

12.1. Distribution of Eastern and Western Penan in Sarawak 291

7.1. Rice Sufﬁciency among the Punan in Tanjung

7.2. Sources of Income in Tanjung Lokang and Nanga Bungan 167

7.3. Comparison of Bird’s Nest Yields 169

11.1. Plant Species Named and Identiﬁed as Useful by Penan 270–271

11.2. Plant Species Named and Identiﬁed as Useful by Dusun 272–279

11.3. Plant Species with Cultural Signiﬁcance for

11.4. Differences in Culturally Signiﬁcant Species for

11.5. Utility Functions of Signiﬁcant Plant Species for

9.1. Punan Vuhang Calendar Synchronised with

We are pleased to extend our heartfelt thanks to Professors Ida Nicolaisen,

For most of human history, our ancestors supported themselves by hunting,

sustainable manner; under some circumstances their immediate-return approach

record-keeping bureaucrats. Following the lead of co-editor Bernard Sellato, the

By B. Sellato and P.G. Sercombe

This book focuses on the nomadic and formerly nomadic groups of

economy and centralised power structures, the rise of contractual relationships,

Map 1.1. Area of Known Past and Present Hunting-Gathering Groups

in Borneo (see Map 1.1). In addition, a tentative clariﬁcation of these groups’

these peoples, and it is almost always based on second-hand information. Only

Names, Groupings, and Origins (see Map 1.2)

Map 1.2. Location of Groups Studied

The common absence of permanent autonyms (or endonyms, or names by

1. The Bukat-Ukit-Beketan-Lugat-Lisum probably originated in the border re-

origins of Borneo’s hunter-gatherers (such as Hose and McDougall 1912;

NOMAD CULTURE AND OUTLOOK