‘I never set out to become a C-list version of Michael Palin’
Travel documentary presenter Simon Reeve reflects on benevolence, Borneo and being adopted by a local tribesman
Ileft the Batu Islands on a chuggy little wooden cargo boat to make the overnight journey east across the sea to Sumatra. I was travelling with two much more experienced film-makers. The cameraman had endured just about every conflict zone on the planet and even had his blood group tattooed on his arm with an arrow pointing at a vein.
We watched and filmed a glorious sunset together, then I slept rough on a bench and the next morning woke feeling rough and achey. As the sun rose over the ocean, the boat crewmen were playing dominoes. I went over to watch and they motioned that I should join them and play. I stayed British for a moment, holding up my hand for a second to say, “No thanks, I’ll just watch.” Then I thought about the advice I give others about always saying yes. Of course I should play dominoes.
I sat down, we shuffled the tiles and the game began. The language barrier was total, but the game broke it down. We played, and we laughed, and then about 10 minutes later I noticed the guys had started filming me.
Bloody hell, I suddenly thought, this is a journey Michael Palin could have been on. I’ve gone from writing books on terrorism to fronting something resembling a Palin Journey. I froze for a second, a domino in my outstretched hand, feeling an extra weight of responsibility. I remembered watching Michael Palin in the TV series Around the World in 80 Days, as he travelled on a dhow from Dubai to Mumbai while reprising Phileas Fogg’s journey.
Michael was carrying an ancient device called a Walkman, which played songs on tapes. He put his headphones on to the ears of a sailor and gave him a blast of Bruce Springsteen, much to the man’s delight, and mine watching as a youngster in Acton. His journey around the world was one of the few travel programmes I ever watched, largely because Michael was genuinely interin the people he met and treated them with respect. Telly travellers before him often literally stood above the locals, peering down at them from under a Panama hat. They treated the funny foreigners as exactly that, with strange customs, eccentric religions and unacceptable food. Michael was different. He sat down next to people and rarely made jokes at their expense.
I never set out to become a C-list version of Michael Palin. Travel was more of a novelty when he was in his element. His shows were inspiring, fun and a glorious showcase for rarely visited corners of the world. I was travelling at a different time, on a genuine adventure but with global issues and journalism as my focus, looking for people with real, serious and often dark stories. But in some ways I was guided by Michael’s legacy. I have certainly always tried to treat the thousands of people I’ve met with total respect.
It felt as if everything was changing for me as I travelled around the equator. I was on a journey unlike anything I had undertaken before. My previous television adventures had been brief sorties into obscure parts of the world. Now I was trying to tell the story of the equatorial zone known as the Tropics. Defined by the Tropic of Cancer to the north and the Tropic of Capricorn to the south, the belt going around the middle of the planet measures more than 3,000 miles from north to south.
This trip across Indonesia was perhaps my first journey where impossible things happened day after day. We crossed Sumatra and travelled east to arrive in Borneo, the third largest island in the world – a place of magic and mystery. When I was growing up, every syllable of the name Borneo spoke of adventure, beauty and impenetrable jungle. As a name it was as evocative as Timbuktu and Zanzibar. But Borneo stands above all as a place of immense biodiversity. Just to give you one example, the UK has 34 native species of trees while Borneo has more than 5,000.
I started my journey across Borneo by learning more about the people who lived there. In recent years, some members of the main ethnic group, the fearsome Dayak tribe of former headhunters, had been attacking another ethnic group called the Madurese, who had been resettled in Borneo by the Indonesian government as part of a policy of moving people from overcrowded islands in the south of the country. Over several years the Dayaks were thought to have killed around 6,000 Madurese. Eyewitnesses said many were cannibalised after their deaths. We passed through one town where the Dayaks had been on the rampage. In Borneo I was with a guide called Jihan who had personally seen the bodies, even a headless corpse, lying in the streets.
She took me to visit a Dayak village to meet some of those involved in the fighting. The centrepiece of their village was a striking wooden stockade and a cluster of bright flags on poles.
The villagers were in a celebratory mood, performing a Tiwah, a religious ceremony dedicated to the dead. We were welcomed as honoured guests and I was invited and nudged to take part in slow rhythmic dancing. To the resonant sound of gong music, I had a traditional Dayak sword with a beautifully carved bone hilt strapped around my waist and my face daubed in white powder.
This was all very lovely, and looked great on camera. But there was a real darkness about the community. I asked one of the elders, a dapper man called Robert with slicked-back silver hair, what had happened during the conflict.
“They attacked us first; they killed two people from our village,” he said. “If you are good to us then we will be very good to you. If you treat us badly, then we will treat you worse.”
He poured us both large glasses of local firewater.
I looked down at the sword around my waist. It had a sharp blade and the feel of a ceremonial machete. The scabested bard was carved from wood, painted red, bound with woven rattan and adorned with dyed pig bristle and tufts of human hair.
“Would this sword have been used in the fighting?” I asked.
“This is our traditional weapon which we’ve used for a long time,” said Robert. “When we had our fight with the Madurese we used it. Many Madurese were beheaded with these swords. We chopped their heads off with this.” I was aghast, but I couldn’t let it show.
Robert said he had not directly been involved in the fighting, but was giving out orders. “My son was involved in the fighting,” he added. “The Madurese killed his best friend. If they were Madurese, my son did not hesitate to kill them. Off with their heads. If they were Madurese, he had to kill them. It was payback. We destroyed everything, including their livestock.”
He poured us both another drink, and then another. The tempo of the dancing increased.
Robert was feeling very jolly. And generous. A show of Dayak hospitality went slightly further than I was expecting. We ate a group meal together with Robert’s family and villagers, and then there was a flurry of quick conversation. Jihan listened, and paled. “What’s wrong?” I hissed to her. “You won’t believe this. He wants to adopt you,” she hissed back.
“Sorry, what?” I laughed. “I thought you said ‘adopt’.”
She nodded quickly: “Just go along with it!”
Sitting cross-legged and barefoot among a large gathering of villagers, wearing a yellow bandana and with my face still covered with white powder, rice was placed on my head, representing power and food for the community. I was anointed with the blood of a sacrificed chicken.
“Normally they use human blood,” said Jihan. “They’re making allowances for you.”
“Good luck to you and long life to the new member who will be adopted into our family,” intoned an elder, deadly serious. And with that I became Robert’s 12th child. As a ceremonial gift they insisted I take the antique Dayak mandau sword I had been wearing earlier. It remains one of my most treasured mementoes.
This was my first journey where impossible things happened day after day
Journeys to Impossible Places by Simon Reeve is published by Hodder & Stoughton (RRP £20). Buy it now for £16.99 at books. telegraph.co.uk or call0844 871 1514