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community tour gear sit near artifacts brought down
from the mountains. His living room is a mix of DIY
computers, historical documents, and handmade
traditional tools
—
a layered map of his twenty-year
journey back to his roots.
Looking ahead, Laung plans to slow down. After
eight years of leading tours, he is now taking a
pause. To him, preparing the hearts of his people is
more important than taking tourists up the mountain
for photos. "Beyond walking the old trails, I want
to study the plants," he says. "Maybe one day, I
’
ll
teach people to weave rattan right there on the
mountain."
Making a palanang is the ultimate dream for these
practitioners. But before the weaving begins, one
must harvest and shave the rattan
—
a grueling task
of dragging thorny vines from the forest. "The elders
say you must make twenty baskets and weave fifty
cloths before the knowledge stays in your body,"
Laung says. "Many give up while shaving the rattan;
it
’
s thorny, and your hands get bloodied. Watching
my father, I realized how strong they were. Even
when their hands were failing, they shaved the wood
without a single complaint."
A finished object relies on the teacher
’
s wisdom
and the environment
’
s gifts. When one knows
where an object comes from, every act of
observation and labor reinforces a lineage,
spreading like roots. To identify oneself as part of this
web is to feel supported and empowered. The stone
mill may say certain crops are gone, but the wooden
spoon proves that knowledge is constantly reborn
through practice.
Just as crafting an object requires a steady pace
and a found rhythm, so does life. By crafting these
items, the youth of Bahuan are finding a way to lace
their modern lives back into the heartbeat of the
mountains.
continued to move due to policy, disaster, or the
need for fertile soil. Laung
’
s own family moved five
or six times. Yet, no matter how winding the road,
there have always been those who looked toward
the peaks and traced the homeward path.
Atul recalls a story from his grandfather, who at
eighteen followed his own father back to their
ancestral hunting grounds. While waiting for their
traps, the great-grandfather took the boy to see
their old home, where wild millet still grew among
the ruins. What the grandfather remembers most
was the trek back: his wicker basket grew heavy with
three stone mills found at the site, which he carried
down the mountain, step by heavy step.
These mills, though grueling to carry, were essential
for grinding the dryland grains typical of Bunun
slopes. Today, however, the link between crops and
diet has frayed. Laung now keeps several of these
mills; they were carried down by his kin, left idle as
times changed, and eventually found their way to
him.
To capture the fading details of the past, the study
and creation of these objects have become a new
lead. The trio chose everyday items because they
are intimate
—
linked to the warmth of family
—
and
because through physical practice, they can inherit
skills and slowly understand who they are.
For Laung, this began a decade ago when elders
from the Kiwit community gave him a palanang
(rattan backpack). "They gave me three. Now
those elders are gone," he reflects. "I realized I had
all that time, yet I never asked to learn. My father
once taught me how to shave rattan; now, I am
simply practicing again." The younger Atul and Abus
began with craft courses elsewhere before turning
their gaze back home, hoping to sustain Bahuan
’
s
unique skills. Together, they weave a road home
through research and manual labor.
Letting the Hands Lead the Heart
Laung
’
s home is a living archive. Photos of
ancestral expeditions line the walls, and crates of
Wanrong Township
48