Bina is a member of Himalayan Ark, a community-owned social enterprise that supports villagers to run homestays while giving back to their communities.
Even over an occasionally fuzzy video call on a tiny screen, Yee Kuat makes you feel like you are right there in Kampung Gurney, sitting outside his house while he tells you about the bounty grown and reared in his village.
Sharing how the villagers tend to the land, his pride is evident: “Our fish only eat cassava leaves,” he shares. “Our food is organic, we live in nature. What we have here is about the mountains, the forests, the river.”
Yee Kuat is of Temuan ancestry, one of 18 indigenous tribes in Peninsular Malaysia collectively referred to as Orang Asli, or “First People” in the Malay language; his Chinese moniker reflects his half-Chinese heritage and education in a Chinese school, where he also learnt to speak Mandarin.
An entrepreneur, he is also the chairman of his village committee in Hulu Selangor, an hour’s drive away from Kuala Lumpur, the Malaysian capital. And even amid a lockdown in the COVID-19 pandemic, he hopes someday that travellers would someday get to experience the land he knows and loves.
Kampong Gurney is flanked by the Sungai Sendat recreational rainforest, the treeline of which can be seen from the hilltop village. Just past the village is the Sungai Sendat waterfall, a draw for many day trippers who revel in its cool, clean waters.
Video courtesy of Native
The waterfall divides the public recreational forest from the Orang Asli's ancestral land, where their durian trees can be found, among other crops and vegetation they cultivate in the forest.
“We hope to open a guesthouse and host travellers, so that they get to know us, get to know nature, our food,” says Yee Kuat. “That’s why I’m glad to have met Daniel, because he has ideas that can help us pursue this dream.”
“Daniel” is Daniel Teoh, founder of Native, a social enterprise in Malaysia that partners with Orang Asli communities to offer travel experiences, to deepen appreciation of indigenous cultures while supporting livelihoods.
Daniel and Yee Kuat connected over that most pungent king of fruits — durian.
Even the most passionate durian fans may have never heard of the durians cultivated by Temuan growers. Often generalised as “kampung durians” or “forest durians”, they in fact bear descriptive names like durian susu (milk durian), durian matahari (sun durian) and durian daun (leaf durian), reflecting their unique qualities.
This ripe heritage was not lost on Daniel, who got to know the durians and their growers over annual invitations to enjoy the fruits of their labour.
“Last year, when the COVID-19 situation was okay, we were able to visit a lot. And they asked if we would buy their durians,” shares Daniel. “So we decided to buy some durians to sell on [the Native] platform. And we also ran two tours, where visitors could be hosted by Orang Asli growers and learn about the durian cultivation process.”
The success of the efforts — some 1 tonne of durians were sold — led Daniel to start Biji Bumi Durian this year as an offshoot of Native, focused on selling durians grown by Orang Asli. Working with 12 growers, over 3.9 tonnes of durian were sold by the end of the season, bringing a much-needed shot of income amid a pandemic.
Central to this effort was Yee Kuat, who has been trading durians since he was 15, buying them from his fellow Orang Asli growers and selling them to retailers or wholesalers in bigger markets. Yee Kuat, says Daniel, “knows everyone”. “We were educated on the names of the varieties, who the farmers are, the farming methods,” he adds.
Typically, the durians were sold to middlemen for about RM3 to RM7 (US$0.70-$1.70) per kilo. Biji Bumi Durian however, paid the growers between RM8 to RM25 (US$1.90-$6) per kilo of durian, depending on the quality and what they would fetch in the market.
“We want to get them better sales, we want their durians to be of better market value,” says Daniel. “We made sure we got the high grade durians, because we really want to change the perception of their durians.”
Forty per cent of every RM1 earned by Biji Bumi Durian was distributed to the 12 growers — totalling RM30,559 (US$7,355) in all. Biji Bumi Durian covered the expenses of transport, packaging and other related costs.
Although durian season has ended for the year, the work continues for Native to help their partners develop opportunities in tourism.
Yee Kuat notes that growing up, he interacted with very few people outside his village, which has a population of 300. “We are strangers to most people. It is hard for people to understand us. Or know us. And we were afraid of outsiders too,” the 33-year-old shares. “We are afraid of what others think of us.”
Those from older generations used to caution against having too many dealings with outsiders. “They would warn us of scams, that other tribes and villages have lost land and had to move,” says Yee Kuat.
“I want people to know why we belong to this land and why it is special to us. And we need to find a way to grow, to develop our livelihoods.”
Yee Kuat Chairman, Kampung Gurney village committee
The 18 Orang Asli tribes, each with its own language and culture, make up less than one per cent of the population of Peninsular Malaysia, and are categorised into three groups: Senoi, Proto-Malay and Negrito.
The Temuan are classified as Proto-Malay, who are thought to have migrated to the Malay archipelago and peninsula between 2,500 to 1,500 BC. Today, they live in the states of Malacca, Negeri Sembilan, Pahang, Selangor and Johor.
Due to land dispossession for economic development and various other policies, the Orang Asli’s ability to preserve traditional subsistence lifestyles are under threat, compromising their livelihoods. Almost all Orang Asli communities in Peninsular Malaysia are in the bottom 40 per cent (B40) income group.
Daniel, who hails from Penang, was a university student when he met Faizul, who is Temuan, in a village near his campus in 2016. The two became friends after Daniel helped Faizul raise funds needed to finish building his home.
Seeing the rise of platforms like Airbnb Experiences, Daniel lit on the idea of creating experiences where others could get to meet and learn from Orang Asli communities as he had. “Faizul was onboard, and we put together some ideas on how we could show people a different side of Malaysia while creating an alternate driver of development in their community,” says Daniel.
“I feel passionately about the cultural transitions that many Orang Asli face, where they often feel like they have to choose between 'modernisation' or tradition. Many communities exist in between and they should have every freedom to shape their culture as they see fit.”
Daniel Teoh Founder, Native
Since 2019, Native has co-led close to 50 tours, working with 15 hosts in four communities, and generated RM12,000 (US$2,880) through these experiences for its hosts, plus RM6,500 (US$1,560) for a community development fund.
Though it has currently paused running activities due to COVID-19, it has kept busy. Apart from the Biji Bumi Durian project, Native is partnering with NGO EPIC Homes to develop a tourism project in Kampung Serendah, to be owned and managed by a Temuan community there.
It has tested out virtual experiences, and also designed online learning experiences for schools with its Orang Asli partners, such as a webinar for the Singapore University of Social Sciences.
And Native remains committed to working with Orang Asli communities to develop tourism experiences owned by the community. “Initially, these experiences can be booked through us, but we hope they run it on their own in future. We see ourselves as ‘incubating’ these enterprises,” says Daniel. “We don't want to become gatekeepers, because it is not in line with our mission of long-term empowerment.”
Says Yee Kuat of Daniel: “He has a good heart, and he comes up with ideas. Our younger folks are open to ideas. They don’t want to work for others forever.”
Within Malaysia, Daniel acknowledges there is a long way to go in addressing the bias and lack of understanding the Orang Asli face. “There is discrimination even in our language, like ‘Jakun’ is a [derogatory] word for stupid, but it is the name of a people.
“Tourism is powerful because it puts the Orang Asli face-to-face with other people. When people have encounters, they spread the story, they share the positivity, and change minds,” says Daniel.
Yee Kuat agrees. “We really hope people know about us, then our village will have hope. We have so much to share, but no one knows about us. Native has given us this opportunity, so that we can work for ourselves and don’t have to be exploited by others.”
Native was one of the six winning teams under Singapore International Foundation's Young Social Entrepreneurs programme in 2019. Through mentorships, study visits and opportunities to pitch for funding, the programme nurtures social entrepreneurs of different nationalities, to drive positive change for the world.
Help Native stay the course amid the pandemic
At the time of publishing this story, COVID-19 cases globally continue to rise, and international travel — even domestic travel in some cases — has been restricted for public health reasons. During this time, consider exploring the world differently: discover new ways you can support communities in your favourite destinations, and bookmark them for future trips when borders reopen.
Sometimes, as travellers, we long to be transported to a different place and time, grounded by an eye for beauty and authenticity. A longing that has only strengthened in the COVID-19 pandemic, which has bound many travellers to home.
Terrapuri Heritage Village is one such place.Nestled on a scenic slice of coast between the South China Sea and Setiu Wetlands in the Malaysian state of Terengganu, it offers the remote locale and contemporary comforts we desire from a weekend getaway, but it is no cookie-cutter resort.
Terrapuri, which means “Land of the Palaces” in Sanskrit, is modelled after an ancient Malay palace. Every building in the compound is lovingly reconstructed from old wooden houses that belonged to Terengganu royalty and noblemen centuries ago.
Behind this concept is Alex Lee, a Terengganu travel industry veteran with a deep commitment to conservation that remains even as tourism revenue takes a dive from the pandemic’s chokehold on international travel.
When Nozirawati Rohim (Wati) first joined Terrapuri in 2015, she was amazed by what she saw. “I had never seen any place like this. Here, you really get a kampung [Bahasa Melayu for “village”] atmosphere and lifestyle,” says Wati, a general worker at the resort. “Where else in Malaysia can you find beautiful traditional houses like these [in one location]?”
Arriving at Terrapuri, guests are greeted by a gate that recalls ancient temples, which opens to a calming oasis, anchored by a sprawling courtyard with a moat, flowering plants and towering palms.Amid this lush setting are 22 resurrected guest villas restored in the style of classic Terengganu houses: each stands on a raised platform with high stilts, steep gabled roofs and a wide verandah. Beneath each house are implements like ploughs, coconut scrapers and sampans (wooden boats) — just like how kampung folks stored them in the old days.
The sense of history is carried through in the interior appointments. A gerobok (traditional wardrobe), wooden chairs, brass trays, chests and earthen jars recall homes of wealthy Malays in the olden days. Period details are faithfully recreated, right down to latches used to close windows and doors from the inside.
To construct Terrapuri, Alex began buying old houses from all over Terengganu. In 2006, he started rebuilding them house by house on a 4-ha piece of land facing the South China Sea.No expenses were spared to ensure authenticity. Because of their age – between 100 to 250 years old – most of the houses were extensively damaged or decayed. More than 50 skilled Malay artisans were hired to restore the original wooden structures and to recreate the intricate sobek (filigree) and kerawang (piercing) wood carvings. All the wooden parts were polished until they achieved the silvery sheen characteristic of their original era.
“The project ended up costing RM10 million (US$2.36 million). People called it 'Projek Orang Gila' (Crazy Man's Project).”
Alex Lee Founder, Terrapuri Heritage Village
Yet the process yielded priceless revelations. “I met so many carpenters, house owners and villagers who opened my eyes to the richness of our local heritage. If nobody champions all this, our history is in danger of disappearing,” he says.
To make the iconic Singhora clay roof-tiles — which were no longer widely manufactured — Alex tracked down the sole living craftsperson in neighbouring state Kelantan. “This kind of roof allows the house to breathe,” he shares, “but they’re also high maintenance and delicate. Sometimes, a falling mempelam (mango) can break the tile.”To put the pieces together, the ancient technique of building without using metal nails — known as pasak — was employed. Upon completion, each house was named after the village it came from and traditional rituals performed to bless them and the occupants.There was one more challenge. Who was going to run Terrapuri? Alex was advised to bring in trained hospitality specialists, but he insisted on hiring from the nearby village, although most could barely speak English and had no experience in hospitality. “This is our opportunity to empower our community,” he said.After nearly five years of planning and construction, Terrapuri finally opened its doors in 2011.
Even with the pandemic, restoration work has continued, with all of Terrapuri’s staff employed to maintain the property, while Alex continues to hire artisans to restore houses that will eventually be part of Terrapuri.
To bring in revenue, Alex has been offering “Book Now Travel Later” deals valid till March 2022, which offer guests discounted rates for advance bookings, allowing them to contribute to preserving these architectural gems and ensuring local livelihoods even as travel is restricted.
Without tourists, demand for local crafts and specialities like batik fabrics, woven baskets, and keropok keping (fish crackers) have plunged, so Alex has set up Terrapuri online stores for these products via e-tailer platforms, to help their makers develop a modest stream of income. “It’s still very new but there is some good response,” he shares.
Bestsellers include the batik sarongs and the keropok keping, a traditional Terengganu snack invented as a way to use up excess fish. Made of seasoned fish paste, these salty, crispy crackers are delicious eaten with chilli sauce, and can be bought in both raw and ready-to-eat form.
Amid the slump, there have been flowerings of interest among Malaysians for Terrapuri’s offerings; Alex has received commissions from individuals seeking classic Malay furnishings for their homes, which has provided much-needed income for the artisan communities.
“A lot of people buy furniture from Java or Bali. We want people to see the value of Malaysian lifestyle and Malay culture, and what our artisans have to offer,” says Alex. “We have a showroom now, and we will keep working on these collaborations, to bring work to our communities.”
Growing up, Alex was fascinated by the beauty and ingenuity of traditional Malay architecture, while immersed in the outdoors as well as local foods like budu ( fermented fish sauce) and belacan (shrimp paste).
These formative experiences came together when he ventured into the travel industry in the late 1990s, by renting out his grandfather’s shophouse in Marang town to backpackers on their way to Terengganu’s popular resort islands, dubbing it Marang Inn.
When guests asked for excursions, he engaged his fishermen friends to organise boat tours and river safaris, splitting the profits. Seeing the potential of the travel industry, he set up his own travel agency, Ping Anchorage.Marang Inn did well, earning mentions in Lonely Planet and The Guardian. But more than that, his international guests became his window to global trends and issues. From them, Alex learnt the concept of heritage conservation, a concept in its infancy in Malaysia. "Here, old wooden houses were seen as a symbol of backwardness and poverty, not as precious antiques. What was not valued by the locals was prized by foreigners,” he laments.Marang Inn was eventually demolished to make way for urban development. Seeing the same fate befall other buildings in the town, Alex realised the urgency of creating awareness about heritage preservation. Terrapuri became the project that turned this vision into reality.
It is a message that has seeped into the consciousness of those working alongside him. “When people come here, we are excited to promote our traditional food,” says Wati.
“What's the use of flying thousands of miles only to eat spaghetti? When visitors come, we must introduce them to our heritage food like ayam hikayat.”
Wati General worker, Terrapuri Heritage Village
She appreciates how Alex has been steadfast in hiring locally, unlike bigger hotels. “With stable finances, I’ve been able to gradually upgrade my lifestyle...I am thankful to Mr Lee for employing locals from nearby villages to improve their economy.”
“I hope this resort will stand strong. You need a place like this to let the next generation know about the arts and crafts of Malay culture. Nowadays, children typically stay in big cities; they only know apartments and stone houses,” she adds.
Tempting as it is to luxuriate in Terrapuri, venturing out rewards the intrepid traveller. A day tour of the nearby Setiu Wetlands, created by the ocean meeting coastal rivers, is a chance to encounter rare wildlife and meet the communities living there.
The richness and diversity of Setiu Wetlands is not lost on Alex, who believes that ecotourism can help protect the land while empowering those who call it home.
Though an important ecosystem that acts as a storm buffer and is home to 29 species of mammals, 161 species of birds and 36 species of reptiles and amphibians, the wetlands are under threat from uncontrolled land use. The World Wildlife Fund estimates nearly 20 per cent of Setiu’s natural vegetation was stripped between 2008 and 2011.
To increase local sensitivity towards conservation and improve locals’ livelihoods, Alex recruits fishermen as boatmen for Terrapuri’s day tours during monsoon seasons, when they do not go out to sea. With other stakeholders, he organised workshops and retraining programmes for locals to help them understand the importance of protecting their mangroves.
“If in the old days, they would simply chop down the trees to obtain wood, now they help us to replant them. They have become our eco-warriors,” Alex says with a smile.
Through Terrapuri, visitors get to meet other living legends too: “Botol Man”, a retiree who created a mini-museum from over 7,000 discarded bottles he collected from the beach; a heritage boatmaker who crafts sailing vessels for world competitions; and Pak Harun, a fisherman who can detect specific species by skin diving into the ocean and listening to fish sounds.
To support traditional Terengganu products, Terrapuri’s tours also include a visit to a village to shop for handicrafts and food items made locally from materials harvested from the wetlands.
Says Alex, “We have plenty more local legends and hidden gems yet to be discovered. The problem is that all these stories are not properly recorded. I’m hoping to get them documented someday so that at least the future generation will know.”
In 2015, local lobbyists scored a major victory when the government agreed to gazette 400 ha of the wetlands as a state park, and RM8 million was pledged to conduct eco-training for locals to manage the land.
Alex hopes the value of community-based tourism takes root, so that the people and culture can thrive, and find greater appreciation among their fellow Malaysians.
“During COVID, Malaysians cannot travel overseas, so we are seeing more Malaysian guests,” he shares. “Most of our guests came from Europe, from Singapore, but we hope to see more Malaysians appreciate what we have here, and keep the culture alive.”
Help Terrapuri stay the course amid the pandemic
At the time of publishing this story, COVID-19 cases globally continue to rise, and international travel — even domestic travel in some cases — has been restricted for public health reasons. During this time, consider exploring the world differently: discover new ways you can support communities in your favourite destinations, and bookmark them for future trips when borders reopen.
Alex is the founder of Terrapuri Heritage Village, a resort that doubles as a conservation project to rescue and restore centuries-old Terengganu houses.
Nozirawati Rohim is a general worker at Terrapuri Heritage Village, a resort that doubles as a conservation project to rescue and restore centuries-old Terengganu houses.
Trekking through a jungle in the mountains. Chugging up and down precariously steep dirt roads on scooters. All while balancing heavy loads of rice, fresh produce, spices and other food items — necessities to nourish families in Bali on the verge of having to do without.
It’s all in a day’s work for Wayan Ariani and Made “Arry” Pryatnata who have been traipsing all over Bali to deliver food packages to its most remote communities, who are hard hit by the COVID-19 pandemic.
In this traveller’s paradise, the past year has been “a nightmare” for the many who depend on tourism for their livelihoods, as Wayan puts it.
One moment, Wayan and Arry were villa managers at different properties, catering to the thousands of travellers that throng Bali each year to revel amid its beautiful beaches, views of lush paddy fields, and rich culture.
The next, they were out of work, as COVID-19 led to a sudden halt in international travel, and tourism dollars dried up overnight.
“We stopped work, but we have to continue paying our debt, for our [temple] ceremony, daily expenses and also for my children's school,” Wayan shares.
Arry adds: “Now, everyone wants to sell everything, sell the car to get something, buy some food for the family. That's very, very sad.”
Fast forward a year, and neither have gotten their jobs back, but they are fuelled by their new mission of delivering food to Bali’s neediest — through Feed Bali.
Feed Bali is the brainchild of Adi and Frances Tse Ardika, founders of Tresna Bali Cooking School.
As the pandemic took hold in Bali in March 2020, the couple, who have been married 18 years, decided to close their cooking school and cottages. Seeing their fellow villagers caught short by the shutdown and without income, they started a “Feed a Family” initiative to give food packages to families so that they could shelter at home as the pandemic spread, and eat nutritiously.
Their goal was modest — to help 20 households around their school with food packages that would last two weeks for a family of four. Adi and Frances asked their friends and network of former guests to contribute funds for the packages, to mark their daughter Santi’s birthday.
The response from donors was overwhelming. “For the first two months, it was just Adi, Santi and me, to avoid any contact with others. Our day started at 4am going to the local market to buy vegetables, fruits and eggs.
“Adi harvested spices from our cooking school gardens to donate immune-building ingredients and encourage our neighbours to plant their own spices. Santi and I packed the massive food packages. Together, we’d pile one package into a wheelbarrow to bring to each home in the afternoon,” recalls Frances.
“By the end of April, we were exhausted. We wanted to use up the rest of the donations and stop.”
But when they shared the news on their social media platforms, their community urged them to keep going. “They were like, ‘You have to keep going, who else is going to do this?’” says Frances.
With donations and suggestions coming in, Frances and Adi, former wedding and travel planners, decided to muster their organisational skills and launch a full-fledged operation — hiring a core team (among them Wayan and Arry) to help plan and execute Feed Bali’s distribution.
Integral to this were their Balinese roots and connections: Adi, who is Balinese, and Frances, who is Canadian, serve as holy people for their village, leading the Hindu temple ceremonies that are an important part of Bali's spiritual life.
“We have lots of requests for help, my phone is almost exploding with messages,” says Adi, who painstakingly looks into each request by visiting the household to assess their needs, and consults village leaders on the ground situation.
“I have to classify them like, the ones who need it most. It's always difficult to choose who to give to, but we have to make the hard choices,” he says. “To be honest, most Balinese need help now.”
Arry and Wayan receive two food packages from Feed Bali each month, as well as a “survival salary” of IDR150,000 (US$10.50) for every day they volunteer (about four days a week). This is a fraction of what they used to earn as villa managers but is more than many are earning on the island now, shares Frances.
“The food package is very important. Because we have food, I can save the [survival salary] for other needs, go to the doctor, things like that,” says Arry.
With no end to the pandemic in sight, Adi and Frances set a goal of distributing packages to 2,300 households by the end of 2020.
As of May 2021, they have reached 3,540 households, equivalent to 396,480 nutritious meals.
“So as long as we have donations, we will keep going,” says Adi.
On most mornings, Wayan is up by 4am, ready to start another day at Feed Bali.
Every Feed Bali package comprises 10kg of rice purchased directly from Balinese farmers, cooking oil, 30 locally-farmed eggs, salt, and kilos of fresh vegetables, fruit and aromatics like ginger, among other items. Fresh local produce is an imperative, with the team determined to provide nutritious food to the villages while supporting local farmers by buying their harvest.
“It has to be 4am because we want the very fresh chillies,” says Wayan, a note of pride in her voice. “There are mini trucks that sell them wholesale at the morning market.”
She then returns home to cook breakfast for her family, before heading back to the cooking school to pack the spices for distribution. After packing hundreds of bags of spices, Wayan and her husband, Made Gunarta (Gun) drive an hour north to the Kintamani area to buy fresh vegetables directly from farmers. “We finish around maybe 5pm,” says Wayan.
On distribution days, the team starts their journey as early as 6am. “To East Bali or North Bali, we have to be at Feed Bali at least 6am, and then by the time we come home, it is around 7pm,” says Arry.
Adds Adi: “We go from house to house, and it’s not like, you go to this house and you see the next house right after that. You go to the jungle, trek through the jungle, and then you see the next house.”
The villages receiving support also stepped up, with some volunteering to coordinate deliveries on the ground, especially when the homes are deep in the mountain or jungle.
These journeys have been eye-opening for the Feed Bali team. “I meet more people, I see many villages, and to see the poverty, to see so many people in need,” says Wayan.
Frances adds: “Most people only see Bali as a luxurious, paradise island in the media. People working in hospitality, maybe they have a house, or a car, but they have no savings.”
Communities living in poverty could previously rely on hospitality workers’ donations; when these workers lost their jobs, this precarious safety net vanished. “It makes me very sad that I cannot help them with money,” says Wayan.
Although very much connected to their village, Adi and Frances did not set up Tresna Bali Cooking School with a social mission in mind. “We started with the intention of sharing our authentic Balinese food and culture,” says Frances. “Adi and I are highly involved in our community, our banjar (Indonesian for neighbourhood), but it was a personal thing, it wasn’t anything tied to our banjar or Tresna Bali.”
The pandemic has opened their eyes to how their business could also be a platform for guests to give back to the community. “We have discussed how we can tie Feed Bali to our cooking school, maybe if you book a cooking class, you can also opt to feed a family,” says Frances.
They have also started a programme dubbed Baa Baa Goat, where they have built a goat shelter and donate goats to impoverished families living in remote, arid areas where growing crops is not an option.
Through Feed Bali, a goat farming expert advises the family on how to breed healthy goats, and the goats’ milk can be sold for additional income. The offspring of the goats will then be donated to the next family, creating a long-term, sustainable plan to improve livelihoods.
“Sometimes people just need a hand. When we extend that hand and give support, everything changes,” says Frances.
An early “pioneer” of this programme is Wayan and Gunarta and their teenage children, who plan to sell the goat’s milk for extra income, while future generations of goat will be given to another qualified family.
The additional income is welcome, as there is no clear idea when things will “return to normal”. “When tourists come back, maybe it will be very slow. Even if some tourists come, we have so many hotels and villas, it will be a struggle to get guests,” says Wayan.
Amid the challenges, there have been many moments of hope. “When we first started giving out food packages in our village, we identified a few families. And we had gone to three families, and when we reached the fourth family, we found that the third family had already given the fourth, half their package,” says Frances. “We were just blown away. They still thought of their neighbours, even when they were struggling.”
Working with Feed Bali, says Arry, has taught him the value of sharing what he has, no matter how seemingly small. “I don’t have a lot, but a little thing can make others happy,” he says.
I want to Feed Bali
At the time of publishing this story, COVID-19 cases globally continue to rise, and international travel — even domestic travel in some cases — has been restricted for public health reasons. During this time, consider exploring the world differently: discover new ways you can support communities in your favourite destinations, and bookmark them for future trips when borders reopen.
Amid the COVID-19 pandemic, is there a more iconic accessory than the ubiquitous face mask?
On the website of Noesa, a Jakarta-based favourite among the sustainable style-conscious set, face masks made with beautiful ikat fabric are front and centre, as part of their Corona Survival Kit collection.
But these colourful textiles are more than just a symbol of these unusual times: they are part of the tapestry of empowerment and cultural preservation woven by Watubo, a collective from Sikka regency in Flores, Indonesia.
A traveller could once participate in a weaving workshop by Watubo in their village of Watublapi, which provided the weavers a vital source of income while safeguarding their craft. But the pandemic has ground these efforts to a halt.
With a little help from customers looking for something special, Watubo weavers hope to restore not only some of their income, but also their platform for sustaining and reinventing their ancestral craft.
“Ikat represents a woman’s worth,” says Rosvita Sensiana, an ikat artist with more than 20 years of experience. “Our ancestors didn’t have clothing stores, [so] to clothe her children and husband, a Sikkanese woman toils with her body to weave ikat.”
Ikat means “to bind” or “knot” in Indonesian languages, and Sikka regency is one of the most reputable producers of fine ikat in Indonesia, with centuries’ worth of vegetable dye traditions. Born into a family of Sikkanese master weavers, 36 year-old Rosvita is the founder of Watubo.
Before the pandemic, Watubo made most of its income from taking part in national and international exhibitions, as well as hosting travellers to its ikat workshop, where participants could learn the craft while enjoying the sights, sounds and stories of Sikka.
All this changed when the pandemic struck in 2020, but Rosvita is confident that Watubo will find a way to prosper again. “Watubo means ‘breathing rock’ or ‘living rock.’ It represents our belief that no matter how hard a place is, we will certainly survive,” she says.
I met Rosvita in 2019 before the pandemic when I took part in Watubo’s ikat workshop, a collaboration between Watubo and Noesa.
“An ikat workshop would attract visitors, which would help promote Watubo and increase weavers’ earnings,” said Rosvita then, adding that participants’ respect for ikat is also the goal.
Noesa provided the funds to build a homestay for guests and handled the online bookings. The workshops also included a tour of Sikka led by Rosvita.
But these workshops are on hiatus indefinitely, and for now, avid travellers can only experience the rich history of Watubo’s ikat through the wares sold on Noesa.
Ikat is popular worldwide, but my interest in it is personal. My maternal great-grandmother, originally from Roti island near Timor, was a weaver who clothed her family in elegant, handwoven ikat bearing intricate motifs identifying their surnames.
I never met her, but I still hold a sarong that she wove for my grandmother in the 1950s — an heirloom no one in my diasporic extended family can replicate.Since my family had lost this cultural knowledge, I had come to Sikka to learn from another weaving culture. But even in Sikka, where ikat is considered to be thriving and current, perpetuating the culture has neither been easy nor straightforward.
Many Watubo weavers are alumni of Bliran Sina, an older collective founded by Rosvita’s father, which focuses on the most traditional forms of Sikkanese ikat, and subjects weavers to a myriad of protocols and taboos.
Although Rosvita supports preserving tradition, she believes that innovation upgrades weaver’s livelihoods because it opens up markets otherwise impenetrable by traditional ikat.
In 2014, she started Watubo with Noesa’s support. The collective allows younger weavers to explore creative innovations such as novel colours and contemporary motifs. These updated iterations of ikat can be applied to products such as camera straps and wallets. In contrast, traditional ikat bear sacred images and cannot be used in the same way.
Watubo became Noesa’s first artisan partner, connecting its weavers to Noesa’s urban consumers, and becoming a success story of a woman-led rural creative enterprise.
A former Roman Catholic kingdom that ruled parts of central Flores from 1607 to 1954, Sikka may not have royal heritage sites matching Java and Sumatra’s grand royal palaces , but it can hold up ikat as one of royal Sikka’s biggest remaining testaments.
It is a discipline that is not only arduous, but also easily rendered meaningless when divorced from a practicing community and their culture, which provide ecological and historic context to the craft.
Watubo’s workshop, named Orinila (“House of Indigo” in Sikkanese), aimed to preserve this connection. Guests are welcomed with a ceremony involving dance, music, offerings to Watublapi ancestors, a formal introduction to express the guest’s intention for visiting, chewing betelnut, and a Holy Communion-like ritual of eating chicken and rice.
Next, the weavers and I discussed our lesson plan. I produced a grid paper drawing of my grandfather’s Johannes clan motif, to be woven into a scarf.
No newbie finishes a scarf in three days, so the workshop involves a dozen weavers demonstrating works-in-progress at different stages, and allocating time for a guest to practice each stage. Watubo then completes the scarf and ships it to the guest later.
On day one, I recognised my instructor Maria Genisa, having previously bought her work. Though I had only seen her photograph and name on a Watubo label, it felt like I was meeting an old friend.
Genisa and I spun hanks of cotton thread into balls, and wrapped them around a warp frame. I learned that Genisa’s husband Yohanes Mulyadi is a Watubo colourist. Yohanes also grows cloves, but he and Genisa found weaving a better source of income.
A weaver from Watubo demonstrates resist-binding, a process of binding the yarn to create the desired motif. Photo by Andra Fembriarto
Meanwhile, on another frame, Virgensia Nurak taught me how to translate my paper study into the right proportions for resist binding — binding yarn with a tight wrapping applied in the desired pattern.
It was hard. The shape of my resist kept skewing as though it was having spasms, and I needed Virgensia to pull them back into the motif’s normal shape. We spent three laughter-filled hours together, where I only managed to bind 8cm of resist over 5cm of warp.
The next morning, Virgensia had finished binding the resist for my scarf, and it was ready for dyeing.
Rosvita explains Watubo’s commitment to vegetable dye: “Firstly, it preserves our ancestors’ cultural heritage. Secondly, it is safe for women, children, and the environment. Thirdly, it encourages us to regrow and conserve culturally important plants, and harvest them sustainably.”
Vegetable dyeing also allows weavers to experiment and be surprised by the results. “Soaking threads in experimental vegetable dye recipes makes my heart pound,” says Rosvita.
Morinda red is the trickiest colour. Threads need prepping overnight in an oily candlenut pre-mordant before colouring red. I was already breaking a sweat as I pounded the pre-mordant using a tall wooden pestle and a deep stone mortar. After that, I still had tough morinda roots to cut up and pound into a pasty dye.
When I was done, I felt like I had finished rowing cardio at the gym, but with an awestruck feeling as I watched milky white threads turn crimson with a touch of berry.
I started day three watching the vibrant threads we dyed dry in the sun. Opening the resist and rearranging the resist-dyed threads over the warp frame to form the intended motif is painstaking work.
When I finally sat at the loom, I moved the weft to and fro through the warps and watched them transform into fabric. In two hours, I weave a mere 4cm.
My emotions brimmed over the goodbye dinner. I’d always thought my urban lifestyle and career made it impossible for me to learn ikat, but Watubo made my first step in this long journey possible, immersing me in a labour-intensive process that revived our ancestors’ creative spirits.
Rosvita has been vocal about how Watubo has financially changed her life.
“I had nothing before Watubo,” Rosvita had told me during my visit. “[After Watubo] I’ve bought a house and a motorbike. I am reaching prosperity. I have everything I need.”
Other weavers have used money earned from Watubo to send their children to university, or to develop farms from which they can earn even more.
Because of this, Watubo had become a full-time livelihood for many weavers and their families, who would otherwise earn less as farmers, labourers or working for the government.
Now it’s a different story. “During the pandemic our finances haven’t been as great,” says Rosvita. “Earnings from ikat have been difficult to rely on, so weavers currently rely more on agriculture.”
The few sales that happened during the pandemic were mainly from Noesa and “very few other visitors,” mostly Flores locals. For now, Watubo has to sustain the resources to resume full production in future. “We hope this pandemic ends soon, to resume our activities and join exhibitions again,” says Rosvita.
Until then, a simple ikat mask remains to tell the rich history of this inspiring collective.
Help Watubo stay on course during the pandemic
At the time of publishing this story, COVID-19 cases globally continue to rise, and international travel — even domestic travel in some cases — has been restricted for public health reasons. During this time, consider exploring the world differently: discover new ways you can support communities in your favourite destinations, and bookmark them for future trips when borders reopen.
Rosvita is the chairwoman of Watubo, a weaving collective in Indonesia that empowers women with sustainable livelihoods, by creating modern iterations of traditional ikat for the global customer.
For Sanju Negi, life has come full circle.
From opposing the creation of a national park in the western Himalayas — on grounds that it would destroy locals’ ability to live off the land as they have traditionally — Sanju is now a custodian of the park’s natural environment.
First, recognising the potential of eco-tourism, he became a trekking guide and member of a cooperative committed to responsible tourism in partnership with Himalayan Ecotourism, a travel social enterprise.
Now, with tourism income drastically fallen as a result of COVID-19, Sanju has joined hands with Himalayan Ecotourism to tap the power of carbon offsetting: allowing people all over the world to offset their carbon footprint by planting trees in the Himalayas.
With its never-ending pine and cedar forests, flowing streams and waterfalls, and snow-capped peaks rising grandly above it all, Tirthan Valley, which is part of the Great Himalayan National Park (GHNP), is the postcard-perfect destination travellers dream of.
Himalayan Ecotourism grew out of a desire to divert the benefits of tourism towards the valley’s communities, for whom the creation of the park in 1984 had signalled loss.
Many villagers had depended on the medicinal herbs and forest produce they foraged as a source of income, while the land was also important grazing ground livestock. “As locals, many of us were opposed to the national park because it cut off our right to the forest and our livelihood had depended on it,” says Sanju.
With tourism taking off in the region, Stephan Marchal, a Belgian who had worked on sustainable development projects in India, hatched the idea of an ecotourism cooperative owned and managed by locals.
In 2014, he co-founded Himalayan Ecotourism, a joint venture with the GHNP Community-Based Ecotourism Cooperative, which comprises local guides who are also shareholders. Stephan handles management and marketing needs, while guides like Sanju — who is also the treasurer of the cooperative — take turns to lead treks, from which they keep 60 per cent of the revenue.
“I was opposed to the model of ecotourism where locals are mere daily wage labourers while the business was owned by somebody else. From the beginning I was sure I wanted to develop and grow the business in the right way,” says Stephan.
Himalayan Ecotourism’s philosophy of inclusion, not exclusion, also extends to its guests. While the conventional image of trekking is one of outdoor gear ads filled with lean and fit-looking individuals, Himalayan Ecotourism also organises trips for guests with mobility problems, such as older hikers or people with disabilities.
The trips range from forest bathing — camping in the wild and immersing oneself in nature — to nine-day treks, aided by equipment and specially-trained guides to ensure comfort and safety.
In 2019, Himalayan Ecotourism won not one but two of the Indian Responsible Tourism Awards instituted by Outlook Responsible Tourism.
In early 2020, COVID-19 began its sweep around the world, bringing global travel to a halt and devastating communities that had depended on tourism for their livelihoods.
Himalayan Ecotourism was not spared, with business plunging to zero overnight. “We had to find alternate sources of income for our cooperative members,” shares Stephan.
The response was one that would not only provide relief income to its members, but also expand on its eco ethos: a reforestation programme implemented by members which would repair land damaged by overgrazing, logging, and fires, supported by anyone who wishes to offset their carbon footprint.
For example, someone making a return trip between Paris and Delhi by air will incur around 1,680kg in carbon emissions. To offset this, three trees will need to be planted and maintained for 40 years (Himalayan Ecotourism’s calculations are based on a tree removing an average of 15kg of carbon emissions from the air annually over 40 years).
Through Himalayan Ecotourism, individuals can buy carbon credits, the proceeds of which will be used to plant and maintain the trees for a minimum of 20 years. Customers will be given periodic updates, including geotag-enabled reports.
Although members would not earn as much from replanting efforts as they did from tourism-linked activities, they saw the long-term benefits in reforesting the land.
Over a telephone call, Sanju, who was the first to suggest replanting trees in the eco zone, shares: “There have been a few COVID-19 cases around here. The lockdown changed things for us overnight but between the reforestation project and some work on our own farms, we’ve mostly been able to manage making ends meet.
“We spent a bulk of our time during the monsoon season replanting mostly deodar (Himalayan cedar), silver oak, apricot, and a few persimmon varieties. We will undertake a similar replantation drive during the winter and continue along the treeline in Pekhri.” In a challenging situation that might have seen them slipping into despair and frustration, Sanju notes that these activities helped keep them engaged and contributing to their communities.
With the future of tourism uncertain, the reforestation programme is Himalayan Ecotourism’s main avenue of providing a sustained, non-charity-based source of income to its cooperative members, and to “mobilise and strengthen the capacities of the local communities”. Over 1,000 trees have been planted so far in a 2 sq km area around Pekhri village.
Keeping true to its philosophy of community ownership, Himalayan Ecotourism has also mobilised women from and around Pekhri on a voluntary basis to manage the reforested areas.
They are also being encouraged to organise themselves into self-help groups and set up microenterprises such as traditional kullu shawl making and bee-keeping. Himalayan Ecotourism will provide marketing support for the self-help groups and will share the initial capital costs.
And for children aged eight to 12 years old, Himalayan Ecotourism is offering free basic English speaking and computer skills, taught by two local women who will be paid a stipend for their work.
Over my four days in the GHNP with Himalayan Ecotourism in October 2019, I learnt about the power of involving locals as shareholders in sustainability initiatives, turning them into conscious stewards of their land.
Then, Sanju had shared his pride in Himalayan Ecotourism’s progress and the role of ordinary community members in achieving it. “It has been the ones most in need, the ones without any stable income or alternate means, who’ve given it their most,” he said.
This community spirit is something Stephan hopes will live on as Himalayan Ecotourism navigates a “new normal”. “On the one hand, we will remain a local organisation organising treks and other activities in the national park, and on the other hand, we will be a regional organisation (Himalayas) who will be able to implement bigger projects for conservation,” he says.
He is hopeful that tourism will return to the valley, though he stresses that safety and wellbeing of the entire community comes first.
“The takeaway from the experience of the past eight months has been that it wouldn’t be wise to continue having all our eggs in the same basket. Tourism-based livelihoods are and will remain one of many avenues to support the local community, but we will continue to build on diversifying our approaches and efforts,” he says.
Help Himalayan Ecotourism stay the course amid the pandemic
At the time of publishing this story, COVID-19 cases globally continue to rise, and international travel — even domestic travel in some cases — has been restricted for public health reasons. During this time, consider exploring the world differently: discover new ways to support communities in your favourite destinations, and bookmark them for future trips when borders reopen.
