City of Swiftlets

There are large buildings in Kuala Tungkal that no one ever goes into. They are three or four stories tall, much taller than most of the homes and shops in this small town, and are painted bright colors—oranges, pinks, yellows—often with ornate decoration. On most, there is a bright red flashing light which goes on at night, lighting up the outside of the building. There are some in the middle of town, and many more on the outskirts. There are windows which are never opened on each story, and store front doors which are constantly locked. Some are open to the road while others are protected with huge fences with barbed wire. There is only one way into these buildings which remains constantly open. On the top stories, PVC pipe is embedded into the concrete, forming hundreds of little tunnels to the inside.

Every evening, these pipes erupt with tiny birds, swiftlets, who call these fancy buildings home. They circle the city, millions and millions of them, to catch insects and exchange news, and do whatever else swiftlets do before returning to their nests in the buildings. Tungkal is a center for the collection of swiftlet’s nests which are used in everything from Chinese medicine to Bird Nest Soda, which is really big here in Tungkal. Each one of these buildings, I am told, is set up like cave inside, elaborately designed to be pleasant for the birds. Unless they are happy, they do not build their nests. The birds are free to leave—they are enticed there through food and through taped songs—and the owners do what they can to make them stay. A kilo of swiftlet nest can go for hundreds of dollars.

However lucrative they may be, I still cannot figure out why they make the buildings so elaborate, so brightly colored, and with so much unneeded gingerbreadery. The red lights are to warn away owls… but the rest of it I am still working on. The only thing I can come up with is that the people who own these places are so wealthy that they just want to outfancy each other….

And so, I am here, in the city of swiftlets for three weeks, finishing up the second to last leg of my work with CIFOR. About three months ago I figured I would like nothing more than to stay on with this project until the end of the year, and possibly look at gender issues. I fought for it, and got my wish. Ah, but desires change, and I have a new set of feelings about academic research, particularly non-participatory academic research. Despite generations upon generations of genetic inheritance pushing me towards an academic career, it just was not meant to be. Of course, I may read this in 20 years as a professor somewhere and laugh, but I right now the necessity of being involved actively in work—not in observing actual work—is important to me. Nonetheless, I have signed myself up for a few more weeks of looking at women’s collective action groups at the district level here in Tungkal, and I shall make the best of it.

When I first visited Tungkal, right after leaving Lubuk Kambing for the first time, I wrote that Kuala Tungkal was a lovely city. And it still is. It is right on the coast, and can clearly be divided into two parts: the dry city, which is not at the whim on the tides, and the wet city, where the houses are on stilts 15 feet high. At low tide, you can see crabs and huge mudskippers racing in and out of holes in the mud and basking in their primordial ooze. At high tide, the water is almost up to the elevated walk way, and boats take people far inland to their homes. Come low tide again, the boats are stranded in the grey brown muck.

This is my favorite part of town, from all that two weeks and a couple of short visits can teach me about this city. The houses are all tiny and built together. The stilts are generally cocoanut stalks, which I first figured would never last, but actually turn out to be strong and supple. Gender roles are strongly defined. The men go out at night and fish. They come back with huge fishes, sting rays, shrimp, squid, and many things I cannot name. They sell the big catch to a penampungan, a middle man who then sells them on to Jambi, or Jakarta, or Malaysia, or Singapore. The smaller catch they bring home. What is not set aside for eating, their wives prepare by drying and salting. All over the rickety boardwalks of the village are mats out with drying shrimp, drying fishes, salted fishes. When these are prepared, the women sell them to a middle man who specializes in these products. The women also gather clams. The fishing village is a full place, full of smells and people and mudskippers and trash and little stores and brightly colored fishing boats. If only I was there long enough to get people used to me, it would be wonderful. As it is, I still must rue the day that someone decided to create a sitcom titled Bulé Masuk Kampung. There are only so many times some kid can shout that out before one involuntarily comes up with some rather violent fantasies involving feeding young children to sharks.

Over the last six months, I have never done research in a place where I could get everything. A fundamental characteristic of field research used to be really really wanting a cold coca-cola. Not in Tungkal! If I really want a Coke here, all I have to do is go outside and buy one. I actually don’t think I have had a Coke since I have been here, simply because the easy of getting one kills the cravings. Is it really research when I can have ice cream? A dilemma to be sure.

(I have a good internet connection, and must take advantage of it to post...More to come…)