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into fine strands to secure the bamboo shim. With
needle-nose pliers, he cinches the bamboo latch to
the loop. Finally, he wraps the assembly in electrical
tape to mask the metallic glint of the steel, ensuring
the animals aren't startled. Lung insists that green
tape works best. He remembers how the elders
once used the hollow, dried stems of the Flying
Spider-monkey Tree Fern to sleeve the cable, using
nature
’
s own textures as camouflage.
"When I was a boy, I watched the old men tie these.
It was strange
—
no matter how I tried, I just couldn
’
t
learn it," Laung reflects, his voice carrying the weight
of decades. "I had to keep trying on my own for a
long time before I found the method I use today." His
words speak to the continuity of experience through
time and the creative spark of the body in space.
Here, separate components become a single entity,
and the logic of labor integrates local resources to
create the most grounded form of survival wisdom.
Chih-Ming: The Master of Modification
On the slopes of Takaday, a plateau within the
Ciyakang community, a farm shed stands as a living,
breathing organism. Each time I visit, it has evolved:
a new doghouse fashioned from an empty oil drum
and corrugated iron, a timed sprinkler system to
mist away the summer heat, or infrared cameras to
watch the comings and goings of the mountain day
and night.
The master of this domain, Chih-Ming, carries the
air of a mountain king. He sits amidst a wealth
of resources
—
laying hens, free-range chickens,
bananas, and Makino bamboo
—
surrounded by an
endless sea of mechanical parts. In his three-walled
workshop, tools hang in a dizzying array, spilling
from the walls to the floor and out into the yard. To a
stranger, it might look like a scrap yard or the cache
of a compulsive hoarder. But in Chih-Ming
’
s mind,
from any timber yard, but they must be placed on
a rack and smoked over a fire. This curing process
is essential to preserve the wood and extend its life
against the elements.
The Stainless Steel Cable:
In the old days,
hunters used rattan palm, but for as long as Laung
can remember, wire has been the preferred choice.
The materials have only improved over time. These
cables are also smoked over the flames to create
a protective coating that prevents corrosion, a
technique favored by modern hunters to ensure the
trap lasts.
n his workshop, Laung walks through the assembly
process, demonstrating how to prepare the
materials. He uses a four-millimeter soft steel cable
for small to mid-sized game like barking deer, wild
goats, and boars. However, when a boar grows
exceptionally large, he switches to five-millimeter
steel, which is strong enough to hold a Sambar
deer. "If they
’
re too big, you can
’
t finish the meat
anyway," he laughs. In the forest, every kill requires
skinning, smoking, and hauling. These are back-
breaking physical labor. For him, "just enough" is the
perfect measure.
Once the raw cable is in his hands, the delicate
work begins. Lung stretches his arm out to gauge the
length. "I
’
ve been doing this a long time. I measure
by feel
—
it
’
s perfect for me." As the cable extends in
a curve symmetrical to his arm, he adds, "I couldn
’
t
tell you how others do it." Much like a veteran chef
who seasons a dish with a confident pinch of salt
to find the golden ratio, a true master uses his own
body as the ultimate unit of measurement.
He ties a slipknot at each end: one for the tree trunk,
one for the animal
’
s leg. At the leg-end, he uses
a screwdriver to bore a pilot hole, then shears off
a small section of wire, unraveling the thick cable
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