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Life Lessons From Rainforest People and Desert People By Rick Gregory The Papago and Jahai peoples may be worlds apart, but they both impart the same life lessons. Arizona, known for its deserts and dry climate, is home for the Papago Indians of North America; whereas, the Jahai, an Orang Asli or indigenous tribe, traverse the deep rainforests of Peninsular Malaysia. I now have the humiliating distinction of having been 'kicked off' the Papago reservation and feeling like an unwanted visitor during a trip to see a Jahai village in Lake Temenggor. In Arizona, I was training for a two-year stint in the Peace Corps in Kenya; the Orang Asli visit was part of an outing to discover the biodiversity of the Belum-Temenggor forest complex. Despite a 24-year gap between episodes, these native experiences stay ingrained for a long time and reveal more about modern visitors than tribal behavior.  The Papago Indians number less than 18,000 and live on the harsh landscape of southern Arizona and northern Mexico. In the mid-1980s, the tribe changed its name to Tohono O'odham, meaning "desert people" from the unsuitably imposed Papago name that meant, "bean people." As warriors they were fierce but did not attack unless provoked. Even after killing an enemy, a warrior had to endure a sixteen-day purification ritual before coming back to the tribe. Today the tribe earns revenue from a casino, but their character remains infused with the desert. Over two decades ago, my partner and I went door-to-door handing out tree seedlings to unsuspecting Tohono O'odham families, most sitting outside their trailer homes. We were acting as forestry extension officers to practice for our work in Kenya. But in reality, we were just two goofy, white, college students without a good reason for being there. Dressed in Banana Republic chic and big sunglasses, my partner looked more like an Avon Lady, only instead of cosmetics we handed out leafy, green sticks. Most of the Tohono O'odham, especially the younger ones, treated us kindly and put up with our intrusions. Except for one elder. Having heard our conversation with his grandchildren outside, an older man with gray, shoulder-length hair burst out from the trailer door and tore into us: - Who are you?
- And what are you doing here?
- I'm tired of all you researchers and sociologists coming to our land and asking us all kinds of questions.
- You need to go ... get out of here!
Walking backward in full retreat, we tried to apologize to this tribal elder as the others tried to ease our embarrassment. But the damage was already done, both ways. We heeded the old man's advice and got off the reservation as soon as we could. My partner cried the whole way back; I was in culture shock. As people of the rainforest, the Jahai are one of eighteen sub-ethnic groups classified under Negrito, Senoi and Proto-Malay, the three terms used by administrators to officially distinguish them from one another. In total, the Orang Asli (translated to mean original or first peoples) number anywhere from 97,000 to 200,000, according to different sources, and are spread throughout the 52,000 square miles of Peninsula Malaysia. Inhabiting the remote interior jungle, the Jahai, a Negrito people easily distinguished from other Malaysians by their kinky hair and dark complexions, are semi-nomadic and rely on hunting and gathering skills to survive on the bounty of the forest. Today only about a thousand of these rainforest people remain. Back in the tropical jungle, I felt that same type of extreme anxiety all over again. Our group was on its way to Kampung Tebang, a village about an hour boat ride away from our cabins. From the moment we arrived, I felt uncomfortable. The unwelcome signs were easily visible: - No children running to greet us
- No smiles on adult faces.
- No buzz in the village.
It was a cold reception; even the lake water was warmer. Upon arrival our nature guide woke up the 31 year-old headman dressed in a tee shirt and short pants, who then fielded a barrage of questions about the rainforest people: Yes, we still use blowpipes to hunt small mammals. We take water straight from the lake. We eat tapioca as our staple food. His calm voice and polite manner underscored his adeptness as a leader. We then wandered through the village handing out sweets to kids squatting in silence and taking pictures. An elderly man, wearing only a tattered loincloth and holding a blowpipe, became the center of attention. As cameras clicked away, his bewildered eyes were hard to read. I did not join the jungle paparazzi but later took his photograph by stealth. No one seemed to enjoy our presence. An overwhelming sense of deja vu kicked in as the embarrassment level rose. I was back in Arizona. A Malaysian in her 60s summed up the entire scene later during a chat session: "I took a spot where I could observe the Orang Asli. I was ashamed. It was like going to a zoo." The Jahai should have kicked us out too.
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