Belajar Alam Semestaku

 Elderly living alone find peace in Tommy’s promise to fulfil their last rites The red, bulging bundle makes a soft splash, unfurling as it hits the surface of the rolling sea. “Rest in peace, uncle,” whispers a volunteer. She watches; the weight of the cremated ashes and bones pulls the cotton-fabric coffin into the murky depths of its watery grave. A coterie of flowers emerges from the sinking package, leaving a colourful trail in its wake. There are no tears, but it is a briny farewell, nonetheless. On this balmy Tuesday, six strangers who died alone are being buried in the waters off the eastern coast of Singapore. Funeral director Tommy Yu conducts the sombre ceremony on a rented bum boat. For nearly four decades, Tommy has been performing last rites for people without next-of-kin, regardless of their religion. His selfless service to the poor does not stop there. He also cremates and buries those estranged from family, who leave the world neglected and forgotten. Along with volun

With Bali’s Mount Batur looming in the distance, a car comes to a stop in front of a house in a village in Kintamani. “We are here,” says I Wayan Karmen as he clambered onto his wheelchair.  Karmen is here to meet a fellow wheelchair user as part of Yayasan Cahaya Mutiara Ubud’s (CMU) outreach, a foundation established by Persons with Disabilities (PWDs) to help other PWDs. “We usually go visit them to see what their conditions are like,” says Karmen, who is Secretary of CMU. “Because of their physical condition, they're shy and feel inferior compared to others. We want to build confidence in each PWD.” An estimated nine per cent of Indonesia’s population have some form of disability. PWDs continue to face challenges in accessing basic services such as education, social protection including health insurance, and have trouble finding employment. In Bali, one of the main obstacles faced by PWDs is a lack of accessibility, with few ramps and other mobility aids in public spaces like s

 The COVID-19 pandemic was devastating to humanity, but in some places, wildlife began to recover, as a halt on travel eased the pressure on animal populations. As tourism resumes, how can we protect these fragile gains?  A halt on human movement during the COVID-19 pandemic added further costs to the loss of life, keeping us from loved ones. But for wildlife, the story was a little different. With lockdowns in effect all over the world, the quieting of human movement gave nature a respite it needed to recover in some places. But that’s just one side of a complex story.  The sudden worldwide slowdown in human movement had some positive effects: cleaner air from less pollution, and wildlife going wild in some places. But as livelihoods were decimated, poaching increased elsewhere and conservation efforts that relied on funding, movement and cooperation between different groups took a hit. Studies strongly indicate that animal-human disease transmission, resulting from habitat destructio

  Sometimes, as travellers, we long to be transported to a different place and time, grounded by an eye for beauty and authenticity. A longing that has only strengthened in the COVID-19 pandemic, which has bound many travellers to home. Terrapuri Heritage Village  is one such place. Nestled on a scenic slice of coast between the South China Sea and Setiu Wetlands in the Malaysian state of Terengganu, it offers the remote locale and contemporary comforts we desire from a weekend getaway, but it is no cookie-cutter resort.  Terrapuri, which means “Land of the Palaces” in Sanskrit, is modelled after an ancient Malay palace. Every building in the compound is lovingly reconstructed from old wooden houses that belonged to Terengganu royalty and noblemen centuries ago. Behind this concept is  Alex Lee , a Terengganu travel industry veteran with a deep commitment to conservation that remains even as tourism revenue takes a dive from the pandemic’s chokehold on international travel.  The Royal

  "Tourism in Ulu Geroh started in the late 90s, when some researchers from Malaysia Nature Society visited us and explained that the presence of the Rafflesia flower could turn Ulu Geroh into a tourism attraction and provide an additional source of income. We villagers had a meeting and subsequently formed SEMAI. The acronym is not only the name of our tribe; its meaning reflects our eco-friendly lifestyle and philosophy. In the early 2000s, I got involved in eco-tourism activities as a guide. Ulu Geroh has one of the highest concentrations of Rafflesia in the world, as well as the Rajah Brooke birdwing butterfly, so these are our top two tourism products.  When we have big groups, I bring in guides from other villages to help out. The biggest group we’ve handled so far consisted of 130 people from China – I had to hire 30 guides to take them on the trails! Daytrippers usually come just to see the Rafflesia flower, but we started offering homestays after a corporate sponsor funde

Even over an occasionally fuzzy video call on a tiny screen, Yee Kuat makes you feel like you are right there in Kampung Gurney, sitting outside his house while he tells you about the bounty grown and reared in his village.  Sharing how the villagers tend to the land, his pride is evident: “Our fish only eat cassava leaves,” he shares. “Our food is organic, we live in nature. What we have here is about the mountains, the forests, the river.”  Yee Kuat is of Temuan ancestry, one of  18 indigenous tribes  in Peninsular Malaysia collectively referred to as Orang Asli, or “First People” in the Malay language; his Chinese moniker reflects his half-Chinese heritage and education in a Chinese school, where he also learnt to speak Mandarin. An entrepreneur, he is also the chairman of his village committee in Hulu Selangor, an hour’s drive away from Kuala Lumpur, the Malaysian capital. And even amid a lockdown in the COVID-19 pandemic, he hopes someday that travellers would someday get to exper

  Meet Shantanu  Shantanu Prasad, founder of Habre’s Nest. When COVID-19 put a halt to the stream of travellers who visit the far eastern Himalayas hoping to spot a red panda in the wild, one would imagine a blissful reprieve for the shy creatures.  “Actually, during the pandemic, poaching actually increased,” corrects photographer and conservationist Shantanu Prasad. “We can’t stop it all. We call the authorities. But they have weapons. We don’t.”  Each day, Shantanu and his team of rangers at Habre’s Nest patrol the Singalila Ridge, which straddles Nepal and India. Covering anything from 10 to 20km on foot each day, they watch out for poachers and record any sightings of red pandas, to contribute to research on these elusive animals. But Habre’s Nest is more than just a beacon of community conservation — it is also a source of livelihoods, ensuring that some of the tourism dollars in this region benefit the local community. The rangers are also employed as hosts and guides to travell