I remember growing up in our remote farming community in the 1950s and 1960s, there was a peculiar man who stood out from the farmers and part-time hunters in our village. His way of life was unlike anything I had ever seen.
My mother said the man was a distant relative. We did not know his real name, so my siblings and I gave him the nickname, Amba Tarun. “Amba” in our language means “older/elder uncle” and “tarun” means “jungle” or “forest”. He was fine with the nickname and took it as a compliment and recognition of his survival prowess in the wild.
Unlike the other men in our village, Amba Tarun hated settled farming and the socio-economic norms that came with it. He had no interest in a typical nine-to-five routine or common social talk that he called “time wasters”. Instead, his preferred solitariness and his true passion was the wild jungle.
Amba Tarun would disappear for long periods, only reappearing when he had meat or fish to sell or trade for necessities, especially salt. He was a master of the jungle, navigating its tough terrain with a strong sense of direction and a deep understanding of the land. Besides being tough mentally and physically, he was frugal and careful about what he used his time and energy for. He had particular preferences within the confines of his jungle lifestyle.
One notable thing about Amba Tarun was his refusal to sleep in ground-level shelters in the jungle. Instead, he built several shelters in trees close to water sources at strategic locations along his hunting routes. He did this to be safe from snakes, alligators, wild boars, and other animals that roamed the jungle at night.
He occupied these shelters according to the various seasons — weather seasons (drought or monsoon), fruit seasons, flowering seasons, animal and bird migration seasons, fish seasons, etc.
Amba Tarun didn’t just rough it out in the jungle as many people assumed. He got annoyed when people talked about living wild in the bush as if it was a less civilized way of life. He was rather obsessed with balancing his health, survival, and satisfaction, always looking for ways to make the most profit and personal fulfilment from his time in the jungle.
He had a simple but sharp sense of “you can’t do everything at once”. If he spent time on one thing, it meant he couldn’t be doing another. This basic idea shaped his every move, always pushing him to find the best and most worthwhile way to use his time and energy.
When it came to building his shelters, choosing his jungle paths, or picking which resources to gather, Amba Tarun thought about what he’d be missing out on by choosing one thing over another. He wasn’t just trying to get by; he wanted to live a life full of freedom, strength, and joy — especially freedom.
I’m still struck by Amba Tarun’s unusual and captivating way of life. He embodied the human spirit’s ability to thrive in rugged environments and situations of persistent shortages, find joy in simple pleasures, and carve out a path that defied the expectations of the “normal” world around him. In an era when poverty was a norm in remote communities, I thought Amba Tarun was slightly better off than the average man, not just because he never seemed needy, but because of his seemingly carefree life.
On the other hand, though I liked Amba Tarun and found him fascinating because he was mysterious, I wished he paid more attention to his hygiene, like washing himself more often, before coming out of the jungle.
One day, he suddenly appeared at our farmhouse intending to exchange some mousedeer meat for some rice. Without saying a word, my mother gave him a cake of yellow soap and pointed to a nearby river.
Then she said smilingly, “When you’re clean and smell nice, come back here and we’ll talk.”
She even offered him a clean old sarong to dry himself with but he declined, saying he had everything he needed.
By the time he returned, Mother had finished cooking rice and Father was back for his daily lunch break. Amba Tarun ate with us and it was amazing to see him finish two full plates of rice so quickly. After that, he finished half a bottle of leftover ‘tuak’ (a mildly alcoholic drink made by fermenting sticky rice) which she had been keeping for such an occasion.
The following month, he came again upon his return from a Chinese shop at Mile 27, Old Kuching-Serian Road, several miles from us and accessible only through a road long abandoned by a research station belonging to the state agricultural department and a quarrying company.
“How about we make a deal?” he asked me.
“What’s a deal?” I asked, puzzled.
“Well, you do something for me and in return, I reward you,” he said.
From his rattan backpack, he took out a brand-new white mosquito net. It was wrapped in old newspapers and tied with a grass twine. He put it on my lap.
“Here’s the deal,” he said. “You dye this mosquito net for me. When I come again, I will reward you.”
At seven years old, I had yet to develop self-confidence, so I looked at my mother hoping for guidance and moral support.
But she said, “It’s between you and your uncle.”
I looked at Amba Tarun and nodded. At the back of my mind, I planned to get my father to help if I did not know what to do.
After that, he disappeared into the nearby jungle and we did not see him again for several weeks although we heard from other people that he came out at various places with his usual offerings. It sounded like he was doing well for himself.
In his absence, I put the skins of rambutan fruits inside an earthen jar partly filled with water. In this jar, I soaked the mosquito net, just as I saw my father did every time he had a new fishing net. During those days, fishing nets could be dyed as they were made with cotton threads.
After a few days, the resin from the rambutan skins turned the mosquito net dark brown and Amba Tarun was happy with the result. He explained that a white mosquito net would have stood out like a sore thumb in the jungle whereas a brown, dark brown, or black mosquito net would blend well with the environment.
My rewards were several smoked fish for my mother and five one-cent British coins (bearing the likeness of King George VI). The coins were used in the early 1960s as Sarawak was still part of the British Empire. They continued to be used until the introduction of new currencies following the formation of Malaysia in 1963.
In the early 1960s, five cents could buy one catty or kati of salty biscuits which were my favourites. A kati is equal to 16 taels (tahil) or 500 grams (half a kilogramme or approximately 1.1 pounds).
However, I did not spend the coins for a long time because I liked holding them in my hands although it hurt my head to keep pondering how King George VI got stuck to one side of them.
One quirky thing about Amba Tarun was his incomprehensible attitude towards women, especially those of marriageable age. Around the time when I became highly conscious of his presence in my life, my parents said he was about forty years old. Unlike other men his age, he was unmarried. He did not have a girlfriend and did not even try to have one.
It was not that he disliked women; he was always a gentleman to them. Being tied to a woman by a social contract was not a happy idea for him as he could not imagine giving up his way of life, especially his freedom of movement.
He never held the typical social conversation with a woman, especially the kind that could lead to a friendship and romantic relationship. It was not because he did not know how to hold a discussion; he had no interest in such an interaction.
The idea of living with a woman all the days of his life frightened him. Conversely, he saw no necessity for a woman to take care of him as he was an independent free spirit who preferred to take care of himself.
While he was always kind, gentle, and caring towards other people’s children, he could not imagine having children of his own. He found babies adorable, yet he saw them as frighteningly fragile and complicated. He did not believe that he was capable of taking care of any child.
The last time I saw Amba Tarun was sometime in the early 1990s. He was about to go hunting when I bumped into him. I was a smoker then and as a parting gift, I gave him a fresh packet of Benson & Hedges, remembering that he liked cigarettes in addition to his homemade smoke. We exchanged a few parting words and we never saw each other again.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
