Paris told the story with a gaze that seemed to gaze far away, as if he was seeing the bridge itself.

“To reach Kenti, we have to pass Palang Liwa, a swinging bridge. If we fall, we will be eaten by dekot fish and end up in hell,” he said softly.

I sat in front of him in Long Ranau, Sungai Tubu, Malinau, North Kalimantan, that afternoon. The technical verification team from the Ministry of Environment and Forestry had just finished inspecting the boundaries of customary territory that Paris had fought for almost four and a half years. Outside, the forest still stood thick. Inside this room, the 58-year-old man talked about paradise.

Kenti is the Punan community’s term for paradise. Paris knew the story from a living oral history fragment passed down from generation to generation: in the old days, their ancestor who died embarked on a journey to Kenti, but because they still had unfinished worldly matters, they were sent back to live again in the coffin. From inside the coffin, they told about the path to Kenti. This tradition also led the community to call back the spirit of the deceased after three days of burial through a small hut located 50 meters from the grave. If the food served was “touched” by the spirit, they believed the deceased had safely reached Kenti.

I listened to Paris’s story and thought: for almost four and a half years, he felt like he was standing on that swinging bridge himself. Not to reach the paradise of the dead, but to secure his ancestral land legally before it’s too late.

***

Paris is also known by his original Dayak name, Wei, which means Rattan. He was born under the dense rattan trees in the midst of this wilderness. Today, he is the Customary Head of Sungai Tubu Subdistrict.

“This forest for us is like a mother’s milk,” he said. In the Punan language, telang otah ine means mother’s milk. “It means that preserving the forest makes the earth safe. From ancient times until now, we live and depend entirely on this mother’s milk.”

For me, coming from the city, that expression sounded like a metaphor. But when Paris explained the details, I realized it was not a figure of speech. When crop failures occurred, the forest always provided sago. When they needed containers to carry wood or game, rattan was woven into baskets and backpacks. Night illumination came from the forest resin. Since ancient times, the Punan Tubu community has never moved away from the Tubu River because there was no need to move.

“We fish for just enough to eat, hunt for just enough for our families. We do not like to destroy without reason. In Long Ranau, our lives are safe and comfortable without being burdened by costs, because everything is in the forest,” he narrated. Even high-value agarwood is managed communally. If a resident is fortunate enough to obtain it and sell it in Malinau, the proceeds are enjoyed together, including being distributed for free to widows and widowers who are no longer able to work.

Their spiritual connection with nature is so strong, guided by natural signs and ancestral rituals. Paris recounted that when walking in the forest and a bird flew directly in front of their chest, they chose to retreat as it was a danger signal. If they heard a good sound, the journey continued calmly.

Then Paris told about Loreh.

“Just look over there, not far away. Now there are coal mines and timber companies. The indigenous people are oppressed, having nothing left for their children and grandchildren. The river is murky from diesel oil, and the fish are dying,” he said with a bitter tone. He saw a similar situation in the Tana Tidung Regency, where the living space of the people was encroached upon by industrial concession areas.

I nodded. From the journey to Long Ranau, I had already seen its traces: areas that had changed color, rivers no longer clear in more open