They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. If so, you'll find me in the Dante suite, slumped over the wet bar.

My brilliantly conceived plan went something like this: Between the combined Sarawakian, Japanese and American teams, there is a cast of thousands roaming the ancient Iban hunting trails of Lambir Hills National Park, the project field site, in an effort to preserve Malaysia's precious at-risk forests for future generations.

Hamish is already doing his part by providing much-needed botanical expertise and technical skills. The last thing in the world the project requires is a former corporate pit bull who needs an oxygen tent after 10 minutes of hiking over moderate grade.

So I decided to sow the seeds of my altruism in another field.

Okay, I thought, who owes me a favor?

I considered the business contacts of the past few months: the owner of a dry goods shop, a seamstress, a Pakistani restauranteur and a married but unaccompanied Japanese business executive with a, ahem, "secretary" who does double duty as the scantily-clad hostess of all this guy's dinner parties. Aha, Big Boss. More well-connected than the others (especially in the biblical sense). And probably A LOT more grateful in exchange for a modicum of discretion.

Naturally, he was only too happy to help. He personally made introductions and within a week I found myself with a volunteer-status position on a small project organized by a local charitable organization. It was an effort which appeared near and dear to my heart - the Longhouse Outreach/Community Service Project. In my deluded mind, it was such a perfect fit: loads of fun-loving Iban, me with my superior Western ideas and organizational skills, a few other professional-level Malaysians with whom to schmooze. I gleefully attended the organizational meeting launching the project.

The group consisted of Miri's finest: Phua, president of the charity, a hot-shot merchant who owns several hardware stores; Wei, the organization's secretary and only other female present, a human resources exec for Petronas, the state-owned oil company; Selva, the project director, an engineer for Shell; Koh, an attorney in town; Ramund, an administrator in the Miri school system.

The tone of the meeting should have been my first clue of things to come. In spite of the prepared agenda, the gathering was taken up with a great deal of blah-blah-blah about who had recently received the honorific "YB", which stands for "yang something-or-other" and generally means that the individual has groveled long and hard at the feet of the Barisan Nasional, the party in power under the leadership of the difficult Dr. Mahathir. The men in particular seemed extremely consumed with this designation, as though it conveyed some sort of alpha male status. Wei, to her credit, kept trying to rein in the conversation. Her subtle approach, reflecting centuries of demure Asian socialization, was as follows:

Koh: "And you know that Fook Chiung? HE got a YB! Imagine! Such a derelict! Why, I was just saying to Wan Pei the other day...."

Wei: "SHUT UP, Koh! You sound like an imbecile! Get off this YB track right now or I'll tell your wife about those "business" trips to Labuan!"

Koh: "......"

In spite of Wei's efforts, it was unclear where this meeting was actually going. In the end, Selva managed to insert a one minute announcement that a fact-finding trip to Rumah Entulang, the targeted longhouse, would take place the following Saturday morning. He said that the thrust of the visit would be to assess the facilities and amenities the longhouse inhabitants currently have and determine what might be required. In particular, we would look for critical needs in health and dental care, particularly among adults; education, including infrastructure; sanitation; and other infrastructural improvements. In that order. With a budget of MYR2000 (about US$690). Right.

The meeting adjourned in a haze of YB chatter with Wei rolling her eyeballs at so much testosteronal silliness. In spite of the ennui with the project expressed by most individuals at the meeting, I was nonetheless pumped to be involved with it. This was good work by good people for good people. I felt the sort of smug glow that tends to accompany "doing the right thing". What a by-god saint.

The following Saturday, Selva picked me up on the way out of town. When we arrived at Rumah Entulang, my jaw dropped the five feet and one inch it needed to hit the ground. In front of me stood three massive structures with a level of finish well beyond the standard set by the Early Penitentiary style of my own hovel in Taman Tunku. Sedu, the tuai rumah (or headman), greeted us warmly, anxious to show us that the interior was equally well-appointed.

The epitome of Iban hospitality, Sedu hauled out the tuak and poured a round for the assembled group. Nothing like an early morning buzz to accompany good works. Sedu proudly explained that nearly every family at Rumah Entulang has a television set, but no one owns a VCR (poor lambs). His own digs were pretty by-god swank, to be sure. Stereo, upholstered furniture, he even resisted the overwhelming temptation of tacky plastic flowers, de rigeur in so many Iban residences, in favor of tasteful live plants in pots. I felt like I was sitting in a yuppie loft back in DC.

Sedu led us around the longhouse to point out the other amenities. Beaming all the way, he showed us a solar-powered pay telephone, installed and maintained by Telekom Malaysia at no cost to the longhouse, the profits from which go to Telekom. Hell, Hamish and I are still wrestling with Telekom to get a simple residential line installed in our place. I briefly contemplated asking Sedu to intercede with them on our behalf. Yeah, Sedu, the half-naked Iban with a body full of floral tattoos, only three of his original teeth and a 27" Sony Trinitron.

In addition to the swish telephone setup, Rumah Entulang had a brand new electricity generating system (provided by the government at no charge) and MYR20,000 (roughly US$6900) of materials with which to upgrade their already adequate domestic water system (also provided by the government at no charge). I did a mental deletion of "other infrastructural improvements", number 4 on our priority list.

At this point, I took Selva aside, suggesting that while they didn't have flush toilets, this longhouse could hardly be considered "needy". I told him that I knew of another longhouse, my beloved Rumah Aji, just 4km away, where I had spent a fair bit of time and where the situation was far more compelling. His reply? "But our organization already has a relationship with this longhouse." Clearly, I missed the point here.

The visit continued. Sedu led the way. I kept wondering when we would get around to actually questioning the longhouse residents regarding the needs they perceived as most important. I mentioned this to Koh, who looked at me as if I had just bludgeoned to death his eldest son. Silly, silly Moira.

Throughout the morning, I kept returning to our priority list. Health care? Good standard, good access. Check. Sanitation? MYR20,000 of upgrade materials. Check. Other infrastructural improvements? She's kidding, right? Check.

Of all the situations we observed at the longhouse, the worst by far was the condition of the school, falling under the rubric "education, including infrastructure". Walkways and bridges were sagging to the point of collapse, and the teachers' quarters weren't good enough for barnyard swine, let alone human beings. Bingo, I thought. Their problem child. If questioning residents directly was not to be done, then the least that I could do was to identify the obvious weak points and get these funds funneled in the right direction. After all, the safety of the children and teachers should be the top priority, right? WRONGO!

The items that were specified by my distinguished colleagues, those selfless charity workers, as THE most significant, the ones that must be attended to RIGHT AWAY were the alteration of the bus shelter (no repairs, just alterations) to ease the pooling of water during the rainy season AND the repainting of the sign that the charity hung when they first built the shelter 13 years ago. And these alterations, this signage enhancement, so critical to the continuing viability of Rumah Entulang, were to be undertaken in five months' time, at Christmas, so that the charity could promote the endeavor as a gift of the season. A Christmas present. To 300 chicken-sacrificing, rice goddess-worshiping, tuak-swilling, animist Iban residents.

Finally, I got the point.

Love,
Moira

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