Crisis 2001 Tour

On the flight from Addis to Mumbai, I meet an Indian gentleman who is amongst other things a management consultant, internet entrepreneur and palm-reader. Tells me of the armies of Indian web-developers who work for $200 a month on wooden boxes under corrugated iron roofs and create top-notch websites for $1-2k. Reads my palm and advises me that I'll marry by 41 or 42, and that my 40s will be increasingly positive until the inevitable downhill path to destruction in my 50s. But watch out for those Bangladeshi women!

Dispatch from Borneo: Chapter 1. Of ambushes and longboats - Kalimantan Jungle approach
	On the flight from Kilimanjaro to Addis Ababa, the cabin staff got wind that it was Stephanie's 19th birthday, and invited five of us to the emergengy exit galley for a champagne and cake reception. Initially mortified, Stephanie warmed to the idea and it ended up being a very stylish do at 30,000ft. Hats off to you, Ethiopian Airlines!
On the flight from Addis to Mumbai, I meet an Indian gentleman who is amongst other things a management consultant, internet entrepreneur and palm-reader. Tells me of the armies of Indian web-developers who work for $200 a month on wooden boxes under corrugated iron roofs and create top-notch websites for $1-2k. Reads my palm and advises me that I'll marry by 41 or 42, and that my 40s will be increasingly positive until the inevitable downhill path to destruction in my 50s. But watch out for those Bangladeshi women!
Fly into Pontianak in Western Kalimantan to the sight of fire after fire in clearings in the jungle below us. I wonder if these are incinerators for tourists following failed hostage demands. Next day, a nine-hour bus drive from Pontianak to Sintang as we start our overland crossing of Borneo. The first half of the journey I am cramped into Indonesian-sized legroom, while the second half is luxury after the couple with a baby in the front seat get out. All luxury is relative, this leads me to think. Earlier today, I had seen five people balanced on a motorbike. Jason, the Australian argonaut, said that he'd seen a woman breastfeeding on a motorbike yesterday. Later, we saw a woman give birth on a 125, the midwife, nurse and doctor forming a beautifully-balanced human pyramid on the back footrests. The delivery was successful, and mother and baby are doing fine.
	Tried to climb a bloody great rock today and failed. It was hot, it was humid, it was knackering. After our failed summit attempt, fell into a Zen-like trance at the water-pool, fuelled by physical exhaustion and lack of sleep last night due to Jason's appalling snoring. Eric claims to be as bad. The situation is serious.
The following day, narrowly avoided a Dayak ambush on our bus journey from Sintang to Putussibau. A group of insurgents lay in wait for us in the long grass, their machetes hidden in the undergrowth. As we approached them, our steely eyes met theirs and a battle of nerves began. One flicker of doubt in our eyes would betray us. As the bus drew level, their nerve failed and they had no option but to revert to their cover as ordinary villagers by smiling at us as we passed. We knew from that point on that our journey would not be easy. In confirmation, we soon encountered a further group of youth insurgents, some as young as 3½. This was an even more serious threat, as they were almost certainly armed with AK47s and bazookas hidden behind broad-leaved plants of the banana family. Again, we held them in our steely gaze, but this time they held steady in return. Our driver had no choice but to swerve slightly and honk manacingly. Alarmed by this unexpected act of counter-aggression, they dissipated into the undergrowth, their terrifying warcry echoing in our ears: "Worraworraworraworra!". This would be no picnic.
Further tales of motorcycles: today we spotted a policeman on a bike carrying a caged insurgent bird, presumably arrested on some trumped-up conspiracy charges.
	Proposal to Indonesian government: erect warning signs on roads in areas of high dog population:
Today the adventure steps up a gear as we switch from road to river. We've hired four of the eight porters we'll need for the jungle here in Putussibau - we could have hired more but that would have meant paying a "fine" in Tanjan Lokang further upstream, to compensate for loss of business. Such restrictive practices are apparently common across Indonesia, serving to protect local communities of interest. They can be accompanied by threats of - or actual - violence. Good to see that protectionism is alive and well at the micro level as well as with our friendly global trading blocs. Our longboats for the next couple of days (to get to the start of the jungle trek) are rudimentary affairs, about eight metres long and just wide enough for one person, powered by a 15bhp engine at the rear. Constant baling out by the helmsman is needed but bums (US: "asses") get wet anyway. We make good time and stay tonight in a local Dayak village, all eleven of us (four tourists, two Intrepid staff, and five boatmen/porters) squeezed into the village teacher's house. I bag a place as far away from Jason as possible, but the lack of a solid wall between us gives me little hope of escaping the tortured and torturing horrors with which he will surely stab the baleful night.
Today the adventure deepens. As we push further up river, the rapids become more and more dramatic. We regularly scrape the stony riverbed, at which points the miraculous crewmen demonstrate their mettle. Our boat has two crew as well as the helmsman, and they leap fearlessly into the foaming river to push or pull the boat through the shallow sections. Scampering tenaciously from stern to bow, their stretched sinews reveal the effort and strength they use to manipulate the craft through to each next oasis of calmer, deeper waters. A youthful Alain Delon (Plein Soleil era) is at the helm, cool demeanour, casual cigarette and toned body directing affairs with effortless élan. As we approach a frothing gateway between two vicious boulders, he calmly assesses the situation, issues a curt order at which the crewmen crouch expectantly at the prow, and lets rip the full force of his 15bhp straight between the rocks. Miraculously, we bounce through the foam and arrive - to whoops from the crew and a wry curl of the lip from Delon - safely at the other side. But the question lurks in my mind - what dark secrets does our handsomely mysterious Mr Ripley harbour beneath his hairless chest?
The Dayak villages we've been staying in haven't been the blowpipe-wielding affairs I'd imagined. The buildings are simple but well-constructed from wood, tiles, corrugated iron and glass, and at Tanjan Lokang there is even electricity. Dress code is Ali G in shorts meets NYPD Blue perp. Given this apparent modernity, we are surprised when late in the evening we hear what sounds like a primitive ritual being enacted in a neighbouring house - some sort of wailing and moaning. Tentatively we approach, and see a seemingly possessed teenage boy encanting ecstatically in front of a black totem which flashes eerily. He appears lost in his other world. This continues for a few minutes until, without warning, the grotesque wailing stops and the boy opens his eyes, smiling beatifically, his (and our) ordeal over. I am told that there is a word in the local Dayak language for this ritual, a word that strikes terror into the heart of any outsider who hears it. That word is "karaoke".

3. Borneo

Chapter 1