When we arrive at Rumah Nor, drenched from a downpour that signals the beginning of one of the two annual rainy seasons, we find the place largely deserted, occupied by only a handful of old people. The lives of the people here in the state of Sarawak are simple; they resemble neither Rousseau's "noble savage" nor comfortable middle class, but something in-between, a kind of rural discomfort, people with their feet firmly planted in the centuries-old traditions of their culture but with full recognition that they should have access to the goodies of the global marketplace.

Where have the people of Rumah Nor gone?

Many people have built second homes on tribal lands that are closer to the timber roads, providing easier access to both their farms and to town.

Still others have moved away completely.

In Bintulu, I saw the shanty towns where many young Iban have emigrated. For whatever reasons these young men seek the excitement of the small city, no matter how rough, to the boredom of the longhouse. It is a modern form of the warrior's journey, berjalai , explains Peter Kedit. In the past young men would go off on a coming-of-age adventure and return to their home village with a human head. Today they come back with a TV.

While the people of Rumah Nor are skilled at living in a rural environment they grow hill paddy, fish for small shrimp in the tiny Sekabai river that flows through their property, weave mats and hunt wild pigs they are hopelessly naive when it comes to the arcane politics of a sophisticated courtroom in Kuching, the state's capital.

Few of Rumah Nor's 200 inhabitants have had much formal education. "It's so easy for the government to cheat its own community because we don't go to school," Lani, who completed secondary school, observes. "Our problem is that we trusted the government too much."

Hero of Rumah Nor

The hero of the Rumah Nor victory is Baru Bian, a seemingly unobtrusive Kuching-based lawyer who explains that he got involved in NCR issues because "in 1988 my own native customary rights (he's from the Lum Bawan tribe which lives in the northern part of the state) were encroached on. The Samlin group from Miri took over our community's land. I took that as a call to action."

The contemporary fight for land, which has moved from the forest to the courthouse, could be said to have begun in 1981 when natives on the Apoh River created a blockade to protest what they viewed as illegal logging on their lands. Dozens of subsequent blockades took place, many easily broken by authorities who arrested the protestors.

The stakes were raised, however, when government-supported companies started to take not just trees, but the land itself, observes Harrison Ngau, a native rights activist who recently completed his legal training.

I asked Baru Bian why there weren't more lawyers taking up similar battles. He explained that most lawyers are afraid to rock the boat and jeopardise their commercial business. "One lawyer told me," Baru Bian explains, "that if he took on cases like mine it would be 'like putting sand in my food'."

The Rumah Entika blockade

As blockades go, the obstruction on the Tatau River at Rumah Entika, some several hours from Rumah Nor, is more a symbolic deterrent than a physical barrier. A pickup truck could easily drive through the simple wire and wood gate that has been erected across the dirt road. A rough hand-painted sign on the blockade says that anyone who opens the gate will be subject to a RM2 million fine (approximately US$526,000), which is jungle hyperbole since the people manning the blockade have no authorisation to fine anyone.

A greater deterrent, perhaps, can be inferred by the offerings made of woven pandanus leaves that are attached to the gate. This blockade has been blessed by an Iban miring. Entika anak Abus, 43, the headman of one of the 12 longhouses taking part in the blockade, explains that when the barrier was erected, rice, salt, tobacco, and betel nut were offered, and a pig and chicken were slaughtered. "We cursed BPP and the state government," one man taking his turn guarding the blockade site, explained. "And we asked the god of the land to hear our prayer."

The implication for outsiders is that the Iban, who, in a previous generation were famed headhunters, would not look kindly on anyone breaching their barrier. It seems to work so far no BPP officials have been brave enough to challenge the tulah invocation that "devils should devour BPP staff".

As a result, a hundred metres beyond the barricade, a visitor can see two large land clearing bulldozers rusting in the rain and sun, next to a vast half-built building that was to have been BPP's project headquarters. BPP's proposed 750,000 tonne per year pulp plant and headquarters, has never been constructed.

The stakes are high. The communities have significantly slowed a RM3.8 billion (US$1 billion) project that includes 6,200 hectares of disputed native land.

As of February 2002, no date has been set for the trial.

Land grab

Jaili bin Sulaiman, whose longhouse is one of 12 affected by the BPP project, says, "We want our case exposed to the world. If we win, we'll either drive them away or put the price higher. Nobody should take people's land without following the law, and without appropriate compensation."

Jaili, who was arrested in 1997 and charged with causing obstruction to the project, adds, "Land and Survey urged us to sign documents that 'will benefit you'. They said 'with employment and the compensation you'll become rich, you won't have to work'. This is a lie," he sneers.

The people of Rumah Entika and other longhouses faced a Catch-22 type of land grab damned if they signed, damned if they didn't.

Entika anak Abus showed me a copy of a letter that Rumah Entika resident Lunta anak Janting signed with his thumb print on 28 July 1997.

Basically, it said, "You have no rights to this land but we will pay you some money anyway".

The person was asked to tick a box that indicated he agreed. If he ticked the "do not agree" box, it was implied that he would get nothing.

To add salt to the wound, Lunta anak Janting and others signed blank contracts that did not indicate the amount of financial compensation later set at about RM5,000 per hectare.

"We didn't think the government would cheat us," Entika said, echoing sentiments heard at Rumah Nor.

Saved by a court order

At the end of my visit to Rumah Nor, Lani's father, Taneh anak Liman, decides to walk back to the car with us. On the way he stops to set a fish net in the still dark stream. In the rainy season the river is navigable virtually all of Sarawak's longhouses were initially built on rivers because until recently, boats were the only form of transport. But on our visit, at the end of the dry season, the shallow river is so narrow that it could be leapt by long-jumper Carl Lewis; it seems more suited to breeding mosquitoes than as a lifeline to the outside world.

We scurry over numerous slippery logs that had been felled to create bridges over the stream. To be more accurate, Taneh walks across nonchalantly, Lani, now more a city boy than a country lad, has to pay a bit of attention, and I take a deep breath and trust the God of Foreigners and Fools to get me safely across.

After about three hours we reach the car. Lani gives his father some supplies and the three of us drive about a kilometre up the main logging road and then turn off. Lani drives another kilometre down an even smaller road, to the point where the acacia plantation gives way to a natural forest. All this land is Rumah Nor's pulau menoa . The demarcation from fast-growing acacia, where few animals live, to a natural forest that has one of the great biological diversities on earth, is startling. The temperature changes dramatically. You can hear birds. Earlier we had seen tracks of wild boar and deer. At least this bit of forest had been saved by the court order.

Without saying much (Iban are not big on hellos and goodbyes), Lani's father takes his pack and shotgun and walks into the forest.

"Is it faster for your father to walk back to the longhouse this way?" I ask.

"No, longer."

Lani sees I have a questioning look. "He wants to hunt."

Postscript : In the wake of the Rumah Nor ruling, the number of villages mapping their lands and suing plantation and logging companies has increased dramatically. In response, the Sarawak legislature passed a new law in November 2001 that criminalises community-based mapping.

Sarawak non-profit organisations and community groups are fighting this new law. Their lawyers are optimistic that the law will eventually be struck down by the courts. Meanwhile, the Sarawak government and Borneo Pulp and Paper have appealed the Rumah Nor decision while Rumah Nor has submitted a counter-appeal for damages. The decision may take several years.

On April 12, a Federal High Court judged ruled in favour of an indigenous community in Peninsular Malaysia that had their land appropriated for a new airport. Click here for story. This case may also set new positive legal precedents for indigenous land rights, and boosts hope that the federal courts may rule in favour of Rumah Nor in the upcoming appeal.

Part I

PAUL SPENCER SOCHACZEWSKI lived in Sarawak from 1969-1971 and returns regularly. His latest novel, Redheads , is set in Borneo and deals with tribal uprisings against timber operators, corrupt government officials, fraudulent scientists and schizophrenic orangutans. This special report written for the Borneo Project was originally published on April 17 under the title 'Rumah Nor, Sarawak, Malaysia'.