The idea was to use tourism to protect Borneo’s remaining virgin jungle and its wildlife, and reward locals for abstaining from illegal logging. It isn’t working out quite that way
“Borneo stays true to nature, far from the modern world.” “A soft adventure tour to meet the people and see the jungle wildlife of untamed Borneo.” Copy like this and photos of animals with gentle eyes against a jungle backdrop are how French travel agent Asia entices tourists to the Malaysian part of the island of Borneo.
Once they get there, they understand the inherent contradictions of “authentic tourism”. Traditional shacks of rattan and palm leaves have been replaced by houses with zinc roofs and walls made of wood or (worse still) breezeblocks. Ecotourism is supposed to generate revenue for local populations, limit environmental impact and make everyone more environmentally aware. But the money spent by tourists who come to admire Borneo’s virgin forests and unspoiled landscapes helps to modernise the place; and what the locals gain in comfort and security, the tourists lose in picturesqueness. Because Malaysia is targeting higher-spending tourists, the modernisation is set to increase. But who will really benefit?
“Politicians are always talking about ecotourism. They say it will bring development, so it’s not surprising the villagers have high expectations,” said Annie (
1), a consultant in charge of developing a new tourism plan in Sabah, a state in northern Borneo. The authorities consider economic, socio-cultural and environmental “sustainability” a must. So the money tourists spend is supposed to help preserve the environment in the areas they visit; yet the very presence of tourists and hotels increases the pressure on the environment. “We must stop this promotion of natural areas, which brings in greater numbers of visitors,” said Annie. But restricting numbers to reduce the environmental impact of tourism would also mean less revenue.
The dilemma is clearest in the Lower Kinabatangan area, in Sabah. The presence of orang-utans, proboscis monkeys, pygmy elephants and hornbills along the lower reaches of the River Kinabatangan led to the development of wildlife tourism during the 1980s. Since 1997 the area has been protected by law with the support, first of the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) and, later, of other local and international NGOs such as Hutan (France) and Land Empowerment Animals People (LEAP, US-Malaysia). In 2005 the Kinabatangan Wildlife Sanctuary was established. It covers 27,000 hectares, divided into 10 non-contiguous lots spread out over 200km.
There are two problems. The geographical fragmentation makes it difficult for wildlife to move between lots, and their genetic diversity and health are under threat from increasing consanguinity. And because the 1997 Wildlife Conservation Enactment prohibits hunting and harvesting in the sanctuary without special authorisation, the locals find that environmental protection benefits urban travel agents more than them. Many prefer to convert their land into small-scale plantations, deriving only a minimal income from tourists, through a homestay programme.
The sanctuary includes four villages that receive visitors: Abai, Sukau, Bilit and Batu Puteh. The sanctuary and the presence of major corporations make their inhabitants feel doubly dispossessed. Because of their indigenous status, the villagers are entitled by law to a small amount of land (while the big companies are able to buy up large tracts and create plantations covering several hundred hectares) but it’s too little for their children to be able to live off; those who have no land and depend on fishing, or temporary jobs in the city or on plantations, are even worse off. Ecotourism was supposed to be their salvation. Villagers could offer accommodation, get jobs in hotels, put on traditional culture shows, or sell local crafts. Easier said than done.
Untrained, with little English
It’s hard to grow fruit and vegetables when monkeys, wild pigs and elephants raid crops; ordinary fences will not keep them out and only the big plantations can afford electric fences. Few villagers still have weaving and carving skills; rattan baskets were replaced by plastic housewares a long time ago. Traditional events are hard to organise when young people are losing interest in local culture. And in any case tourists are more interested in the wildlife.
The villagers run just two (basic) bed & breakfasts. The hotels, which the guidebooks and brochures call “ecolodges”, generally rent the land they occupy, which gives a dozen families a significant income. But just two or three employ only local staff: most find it cheaper to hire Filipino or Indonesian immigrants.
Mary, a former ecotourism coordinator for the WWF, was in charge of a bottom-up project that was supposed to take the villagers’ needs into account. She described the situation in the late 1990s, when there were still only five ecolodges: “The operators felt they had offered the locals an opportunity, but the locals hadn’t taken it up. They hired a few villagers, but complained that they didn’t turn up for work when there was a wedding to go to. ... The villagers say they are entitled to jobs because they are natives. But they should only get a job if they deserve it. Otherwise, someone better qualified should get it.” Untrained and with little English, the villagers rarely meet the job requirements, even if they are knowledgeable about nature. They complain about the working conditions and the lack of freedom that comes with being an employee. Many said they would rather be their own boss, even if it meant living off fishing alone.
It seems the benefits of ecotourism are not as great as the authorities suggested when they invited the villagers to help protect and commercialise Borneo’s natural heritage. “If tourism doesn’t bring us any benefits,” said a villager in 1996 (
2), “we’ll kill the last few proboscis monkeys so the travel agent won’t have anything to show.” There was already a sense that the authorities were more concerned with protecting the animals from any inconvenience the villagers might cause them, than the other way around.
Protecting the environment has had many benefits for the tourist industry. Over 70,000 people visit the sanctuary each year and the number is rising steadily: new hotels are being built. But to get to the sanctuary, they must make a 150km journey through oil palm plantations, most of which belong to major corporations. “When my customers see the plantations, they burst into tears,” said Albert, who owns a travel agency in Kota Kinabalu and an ecolodge in Sukau.
The official line is that, over the last 15 years, illegal plantations have been destroyed, poachers have been arrested or dissuaded, and wildlife has been studied and protected. The elephant population density is rising and the areas of forest felled since the 1950s are growing back. Around the sanctuary and along the riverbanks, the landscape is starting to look the way the tourists expect, to the delight of the travel agencies. A sign of success is that tourist accommodation has evolved from a few basic tents in 1990 to around 340 hotel rooms, an annual capacity of over 200,000 person/nights. The 15 accommodation centres are concentrated around the villages of Sukau (population over 1,000) and Bilit (less than 200).
Martin is the initiator of the homestay project in Kinabatangan. An engineer by training, he fell in love with Borneo and has been working in tourism in Sabah since 1991, when he was shocked to find that some operators took tourists around villages without giving the villagers any share of the profit. If villagers demanded a share, the operators would move on: “There are plenty of villages, so it was easy to find another one.” This had no impact on the popularity of the tour. “The tourists were not naïve, but they didn’t know the history of the tour, and it all seemed so perfect.” So they continued to believe they had chosen a package that benefited the locals.
From the late 1980s, over-exploitation of the forest meant the natives of Kinabatangan were no longer able to get work as loggers in forest reserves, and they were criticised for resorting to illegal logging near their villages. Tourism was seen as an alternative to a way of life that was dying out. “In 1996,” said Martin, “I heard that the government was planning to fund some of the conservation work in Kinabatangan and was talking about village tourism projects. So I contacted the WWF. They had donors, and I had a village that wanted to try a different way of life, based on community development: Batu Puteh. Our plan did involve protecting biodiversity, but, from the villagers’ point of view, the aim was to find an alternative to illegal logging.”
The homestay idea seemed straightforward: a dozen villagers could simply club together, show that their area would be of interest to tourists, and convert their houses to comply with health and safety regulations. After discussions and training, the programme got under way. Batu Puteh served as a model and between 1997 and 2004 four such groups were set up in Kinabatangan, 16 in Sabah. Now all they needed was tourists, and the villagers would benefit from tourism directly.
Neat little houses with a TV
But things have not gone to plan. The poorest villagers can’t afford to improve their houses to the necessary standard. The training is free, but it is held near Kota Kinabalu, the Sabah state capital, 400km from Kinabatangan; it can cost a month’s income for a couple to travel there. And only one Australian agent specialising in adventure tourism and one Bornean agency, set up by the inhabitants of Sukau, will actually work with the homestays.
There is also a problem with the gap between the Malaysian city-dwellers who run the project and believe in comfort, and the western tourists, who want authenticity and adventure. Visitors who would like to play at being Indiana Jones find themselves put up in neat little houses where a television set takes pride of place in the living room. They can sit on the ground and eat with their hands; sometimes their mattress will be laid on the floor and, at night, wild pigs may forage among the stilts on which the houses are built. If they are lucky, the monkeys will put on a little show by stealing food from the kitchen, or elephants may show the tips of their trunks in the garden. But mostly it’s nothing like the image they have of life in the jungle — it’s a brave new world of washing machines, electric fans, mixers, karaoke machines, zinc roofs and cars.
The ecolodges are built of wood, close to the edge of the forest, and blend into the trees. They are some distance from villages, which limits the scope for commercial transactions between the tourists and the local population. The ecolodges’ skilful marketing and networks make them serious competitors for the homestays.
In 2008 the WWF encouraged five ecolodges to set up an association for environmental protection, by including an eco-tax in their charges. “The aim is to protect our investment,” said the association’s president. The jungle, the wildlife and the river are the ecolodges’ raw materials: without them, there would be no tourism. With the money raised through the tax, they intend to pay for security patrols, set up a common code of social and environmental best practices, and take part in local reforestation.
So even if the attempt at community development through ecotourism is founded on misunderstandings, it has involved a wider circle in the defence of the natural environment, by creating an economy that depends on it: everyone I met agreed that the banks of the Kinabatangan are better protected today than before the tourists arrived.
