To the Swimmer in the Borneo Rainforest
This essay was selected for Best American Travel Writing 2021.
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It was the end of July in the Borneo jungle, a place without clocks, days still guided by the sun’s movements. You were leaning against your rusted silver truck, wringing calloused hands together, a brimmer hat pulled down low. I’d traveled by bus over the mountains from the town where I had been teaching English for the last eight months. We were the first ones to arrive at the volunteer base, a stilted wooden house burrowed amidst lush plants. We had little in common, you with your indigenous Dusun tongue, me with my American midwest twang. But we were both young and bold and had seen a local NGO’s Facebook plea for volunteers; the project in question used waterfalls to create electricity in rural villages. We both wanted to bring light.
The mission director was an elderly Malaysian man who spent his free time voyaging on foot into the jungle, collecting seeds of rare flora and preserving them in his backyard. Dotting his land were miniature palm trees, otherworldly orchids, and carnivorous Pitcher plants. We sat beneath the shade of big green Elephant Ears, watching the other volunteers trickle in, a mix of peninsular Malasysians, Sabahans, Italians, and an Englishman. I realized I was the only woman on the team. “You’ll go with him,” the director said, motioning towards you. I nodded, making an internal pact to keep my hair up, hat down, and pull equal weight as the men; I would not be seen as a weak link.
You drove the truck while I rode shotgun. We ventured five hours down that uneven dirt road, deep into the jungle that hadn’t yet been destroyed by palm. I was annoyed you’d been assigned as my caretaker, but this amused you, judging by the glimmer in your eye on an otherwise stoic face. While we didn’t speak much, you occasionally whispered phrases in Dusun, which I tried to recount in English. Alawa, you’d say, pointing at flowers out the window. Beautiful. Once we discovered we both knew all the words to Biz Markie’s “Just a Friend,” we played it on repeat from your cassette player.
We spent five days together, carrying heavy pipes into the forest, binding them with acrid glue that made my head spin. You were quietly strong, muscled from days tapping rubber trees on your father’s land. We both loved the water, and instead of taking lunch breaks with the group, we swam at the falls, careful not to catch each other’s eye. I knew Syariah law mandated strict boundaries between women and men, so for the last months I’d been careful to avert my eyes when spoken to and never shake hands with a man. Even during the grueling labor of lugging tubes and water turbines side-by-side with the male volunteers under the equatorial sun, I wore an oversized t-shirt and baggy pants. I never stayed long in the water, self-conscious that my shape might be visible through the wet cloth. After the cool respite of each swim, I’d return to the house to change and help the village women peel garlic cloves, clumsily trying to mirror their expert motions.
You were always the last to quit work for the day. At night, you cleaned yourself for prayer, then sat on the wooden porch of the main house smoking joints. I sat across the planks and wrote. You looked so pensive that I longed to touch your arm and ask what you were thinking; but even here, in the remoteness of the jungle, I knew that was forbidden. Gradually, I stopped being annoyed by your guardianship, and instead grew grateful for your company. I noticed how you stayed near me during the day, close enough to help me lift pipes when they grew laden; in return, I’d scamper up ladders to help you run wire.
It happened on the last night of the trip. The villagers and volunteers crowded anxiously around a wooden door frame, our breaths drawn as you put your hand on the final light switch installation. When the light flickered on, we whooped and hollered, and the best tapai was brought out to drink. We danced for hours, chewing betel under the single bulb while the Ranau brothers played guitar, and I believed then in pure good, the power of common cause. I let myself laugh uninhibitedly. You and I sang “Original Sabahan” together, a Dusun song my students had taught me. Mantap! you laughed. Amazing, I smiled back.
“More than fear I felt defeat. I’d proven what so many people believe to be true: that it is dangerous for a woman to travel alone, to participate in roles thought to be ‘man’s work,’ to assert space in this world. ”
I stayed up late that night helping the village women clean. After sweeping the floors, I began the short walk to the girls’ sleeping quarters, feeling my way through the thick, humid air, my eyes adjusting back to the black night. Deep in the jungle, the night grows so dark it’s impossible to see one’s own outstretched hand. It was the first time I’d been completely alone.
A male figure broke the darkness. It was another volunteer, but a shell of the man I’d worked with all those days. The sweet rice wine had gone bitter on his breath. He made a sound like a snarl and grabbed my arm. Up close, his eyes were blank, but his grip was strong. I fought until I couldn’t and instinctively screamed your name. At that moment, you emerged, taking him to the ground. You still spoke softly when you instructed me to lock myself in the girls’ quarters. I scrambled inside and curled up on the damp ground, listening to you struggle with him as his fists still managed to knock on the wooden door. I held my breath until he stopped, the last drop of strength seeping from my body. I learned later you sat on his chest until he passed out.
In the morning, you woke me and we quietly left. As you started the truck, you asked in hesitant English if I’d felt scared. I said no and I meant it: More than fear I felt defeat. I’d proven what so many people believe to be true: that it is dangerous for a woman to travel alone, to participate in roles thought to be “man’s work,” to assert space in this world. I was weak; I’d needed you. The home, community, and new life I’d opened myself up to in Borneo had been lost in minutes. As we drove away from the village, I rolled down the window to watch the endless expanse of banana trees, some now strung with thick power lines. I always loved looking for the leaves with purple hearts. This time, I let them pass unnoticed.
You offered to drive me straight to my house so that I wouldn’t have to risk seeing the man again. I gratefully accepted. We had already traveled nine hours when you asked if we could stop by your village; you had something to show me. It was just about the last thing I wanted to do. I was exhausted and nauseous, my skin caked with red soil. But I grudgingly agreed, and you blazed right off the road through grass as tall as I was. We emerged at a riverbank. It was sunset, the hazy orange hues streaming through the forest canopy. We were alone. We stepped out of the truck and stood for a while in silence, because you’re someone whose silence is peaceful and warm and we didn’t need to fill the gaps. You looked at me, because you knew what I would do and I did it, and when my body hit the water, it was freeing and pure, and the night before dissolved away. In the fierce current that flowed towards the vast South China Sea, I fought vigorously under the surface towards the other bank. When I came up for air, I believed again in the jungle’s magic, the rush of resurgence pulsing through its trees and waters. You stood watching from the edge of the bank, and then you said, as if you knew: strong swim.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Meghan Gunn is a writer studying Literary Reportage Journalism at NYU. She recently completed a Fulbright scholarship in Sabah, Malaysian Borneo. She has received writing grants from the South Asian Journalism Association and St. Louis Press Club, and she is a current fellow of the Muslim Women in the Media Training Institute at UC Davis.
Read Meghan’s “Behind the Essay” interview in our newsletter.
Header photo by Nate Johnston