by Di Morrissey
‘The water looks calm, could we swim?’ asked Julie.
Matthew shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t. You never know what might be in there.’
Ayum cocked his head. ‘Coming.’
‘A boat is coming? Yes, I hear it,’ said Julie.
They waited as the engine noise grew louder and, around a bend in the river, came another canoe manned by an Iban who looked older than Ayum. Even at some distance Julie saw that it was smaller than their original dugout and lower in the water, giving her the impression that it could be leaky.
She was right, and by the time everything had been loaded and they were all seated, the gunwale was only inches from the water. Julie held on tight, her fingertips trailing in the river.
‘No more changes,’ said David cheerfully.
‘Have you noticed how the boats get leakier each time we change over?’ said Matthew.
‘Oh, no,’ sighed Julie.
‘The river is very low at this time of year, so boats can’t get all the way up. In the monsoon season you don’t have to stop at all,’ said Chitra.
‘Bit of a pain to go to the shop for bread,’ commented Barry.
‘Well, you asked for remote, traditional, picturesque,’ David reminded him.
The dugout was now travelling close to the bank when, suddenly, there was a shriek, and a group of monkeys swung through the trees, chattering and calling. Then, for the first time, Julie saw human activity as they passed two Iban men tending their fishing nets, and, around the next corner of the river, she saw her first longhouse tucked among the trees. It was a long, intricate wooden and thatched building. Julie was surprised by its length. Dugouts and small praus were pulled up on the bank beneath it.
‘There’s a white flag. What does that mean?’
‘No visitors. Hospitality along the river is a given, once you observe the protocol and are formally invited by the headman. But a white flag means there is something wrong, an illness, a death or that there is some ceremony taking place,’ said Chitra. ‘Just as well this is not where we’re staying.’
Julie gazed at the shadowy, intricate structure up on its high stilts. ‘Exciting. It’s such a different existence, isn’t it?’ she said to Chitra.
Chitra glanced at her over her shoulder. ‘It is. And it’s disappearing. Changing. This is why it’s important that the existing family structures and customs are documented, while we still can. I think it’s a shame what’s happening in some areas. You’ll see.’
Julie sat back marvelling at the peaceful scene as they chugged along the narrow river. Thick jungle on either side looked as though a green curtain had parted and they were entering a sparkling stage, where butterflies darted. For the first time since she’d been in Malaysia, Julie realised that the sky she could see was blue.
‘Blue sky. How clear and blue it is. I was getting used to seeing a yellow haze every day,’ she said.
David threw her a look. ‘You’re not wrong there.’
‘It’s worse than the smog on a bad day in LA,’ added Chitra.
‘Ask anyone in Malaysia why it’s so hazy and they’ll say it’s due to Indonesians burning the jungle in their country,’ said David.
‘But that’s only partly true. It’s caused by the expansion of palm oil plantations in both countries in areas of peat land,’ added Matthew.
‘Why? What’s the connection?’ asked Julie.
‘Well,’ explained Chitra, ‘there is a great demand for palm oil, especially in Europe, because the canola crops there, which used to supply the food industry, are now used for biofuels, so food and cosmetic interests have switched to palm oil. As a result, the Malaysian and Indonesian governments have released hundreds of thousands of hectares in Sarawak and Kalimantan to grow it.’
‘And when they clear the forests by burning them to create these palm oil plantations, it causes the air pollution,’ said Julie.
‘Sort of,’ said David. ‘Fires are set to clear the land, but the land is actually vast areas of peat, you know, carbon that was laid down thousands of years ago. When the destructive fires get out of control, the peat is set alight, too, and it just keeps burning because there is so much of it.’
‘You mean the peat stays burning?’ asked Julie. ‘That won’t do much for levels of carbon in the atmosphere, will it?’
‘No, you’re right, you should look at the satellite pictures. If the peat fires continue as they have been, they will certainly be responsible for helping to raise the earth’s temperature. It’s pretty scary,’ said Chitra.
Barry switched off his camera and held out his hand, rubbing his fingers together. ‘Money. There’ll be someone making money from all this. Big companies, rich men. They blame the indigenous people for their slash-and-burn agriculture methods. That’s rubbish.’
Chitra spoke to Ngali who answered vehemently and she translated, ‘He says the Iban system of moving on to clear a new patch of jungle to grow food every few years has been happening for thousands of years and there are strict rules they’ve always observed. They are not responsible for the wholesale land clearances.’
Julie was silent. This rampant destruction seemed such a contrast to the ordered, well-run, responsible approach at Utopia, where the workers were cared for, sustainable practices were advocated, science and technology were used to develop better methods of harvesting, chemical spraying was avoided, and palm oil was marketed as a sustainably produced food ingredient. But she kept quiet.
Suddenly there was a lot more activity as Ayum nosed the dugout into the small landing between a channel of rocks, formed into a rough semicircle.
‘That’s one of the bathing and washing spaces for the villagers,’ said Chitra.
Through the jungle trees and cultivated bananas and fruit trees, Julie saw the longhouse. Then she saw the access to it from the river: a long, narrow log ladder with notches in it, barely enough for a toehold, was followed by a woven, swinging pathway bridge and then, finally, a goat track.
‘I’ll never get up there. Even without gear,’ she said to David as they pulled their belongings out of the dugout.
‘Yes, you will. Come on, we’ll help you.’
Children came scampering down to meet them, bare feet barely touching the fragile looking steps and swaying bridge. They stared shyly at the Europeans but once Chitra spoke to them, they clustered around her bursting with questions.
‘Here comes Tuai Rumah, the chief. He’s the headman of the longhouse, and he will issue our formal invitation,’ said David. ‘He’s also known as James and he speaks some English. His son, Charles, is quite well educated, but I don’t know if he’s here. There’ll be a bedara, a welcome ceremony, later.’
Julie tried to absorb everything. She followed Chitra, carrying her backpack but when she came to the narrow ladder, she stopped.
‘Barefoot is easiest. Turn your feet sideways and go up like a crab. Hold onto the bamboo railings. Someone will bring your gear,’ Chitra told Julie.
Cautiously, Julie managed to scramble up the long ladder. She was followed by two little girls who just walked up it without hanging on, carrying Julie’s backpack between them.
Two bare-breasted women in sarongs waiting at the woven cane bridge were full of welcoming smiles and giggles. The older woman with her dry breasts like deflated balloons, long looped earlobes and missing teeth had bright black button eyes that were full of mischief and fun. The other woman, a baby tied to her back by a length of red cloth, was sweet faced and took Julie’s hand as she stepped onto the swinging bridge.
The longhouse was surrounded by bananas, jack fruit and durian trees, and a garden plot. A rice field could be seen further up a hill. Under and around the raised long-house were dogs, chickens and pigs. Several notched logs led up onto the long open verandah, or tanju as Chitra called it. Here washing hung, large looms with half- completed woven rattan mats leaned against the wall, a bitch lay feeding a litter of puppies and children played while families gathered to watch the vis
itors.
Stepping onto the tanju, Julie felt the slatted wooden floor creak and move with her weight. Shoes were removed, and they moved into the gloomy shade of a parallel long corridor that was the communal living area. Baskets, tools and storage bins were suspended from a loft and outboard motors, plastic tubs, a pile of gourds used to carry water, lengths of rattan and several large woven conical hats were piled against the walls.
‘This is the ruai, the main indoor verandah, and those are the bilek, individual living quarters for each family,’ said Chitra indicating the row of doors partitioning off each small apartment.
David took Julie’s arm. ‘Here we are. Because of the number of families in residence we might have to share rooms.’
‘I don’t mind sharing with Chitra,’ said Julie quietly.
‘Ah, she’ll be sharing with Matthew.’ David gave her a big smile and wink. ‘They’re old friends.’
‘Oh.’ Before she could ask where she would be sleeping, the headman came to them and introduced his wife. She smiled, picked up Julie’s bag and led Julie to the centre bilek and ushered her inside. The room was big, but cluttered. Two large mats had a traditional woven blanket on each while an intricately designed, half-completed blanket hung from a long loom leaning against the wall. The old leather suitcases and a basket in one corner probably held clothing, Julie thought, while sarongs, shirts and some bead necklaces were displayed along the bamboo frame of one wall. Large pots, including a Chinese ceramic one, water carriers, a brass gong and other metal ornaments, and a beautiful feather headdress were scattered about the room.
There was a roof flap, which was opened by a pole, letting in fresh air, and a bamboo door was propped open, showing a walkway that crossed to another small room. It was built with bits of corrugated iron and was obviously a detached kitchen. It occurred to Julie that fire must be a dreadful hazard in longhouses, even when the cooking fires were separated from the main dwelling. She recalled now seeing a small fireplace in the ruai, but this must be for warmth and not for cooking.
As she glanced around she realised that this room was the Tuai Rumah’s bilek, which he shared with his wife. Julie hoped she wasn’t being asked to share with them. But the chief’s wife handed her a rolled mat and one of the beautiful blankets and beckoned her to follow. Julie was led to a smaller bilek next door, which was more simply decorated with fewer possessions. The woman took Julie’s blanket, spread it on a floor mat, and dropped Julie’s bag onto it. This room was to be her lodgings, but who her roommates were she had yet to discover.
When Julie returned to the ruai, it seemed that the bedara, the welcome ceremony, had already begun. Everyone was seated in a circle. The women and children were on the outer circle, the men and the visitors at the front. Seated beside the headman was a very old man, his sculptured face cast in relief in the dim coolness. He wore his grey hair cropped in a short pudding-basin style with a fringe clipped in a straight line across his forehead. His ear lobes were splayed and hung heavily, almost to his shoulders, and he wore only a cawat, the local-style loincloth, folded in the front from the waist. He was heavily tattooed, even on the backs of his hands. Everyone showed him great respect.
‘This is Tuai Rumah Jimbun. He is the father of Tuai James. He’s eighty years old and used to work in the Sarawak Rangers in colonial times. He is greatly respected, not just because of his age, but because he has won a George Cross and, as you know, that is a very great honour,’ said Chitra.
The old man made a short speech and the wife of Tuai James placed a jug in the centre of the circle and glasses and plastic mugs were handed around.
‘It’s tuak, which is fermented rice wine. But you can’t refuse to drink,’ David whispered to Julie. ‘That causes offence.’
There was much laughter, explosive declarations, teasing and cajoling as the glasses were filled and passed. Julie took a sip of the tuak and found it to be extremely strong, but when she went to pass the glass on to Chitra there were howls of objection from everyone. Julie had no choice but to empty her glass. However, after three glasses, Julie felt quite dizzy, and looked at Chitra for help.
Chitra spoke to James’s wife and then said to Julie. ‘Nenek, grandmother, will take you outside. To the toilet space. It’s rather rustic, I’m afraid.’ She smiled apologetically.
Chitra was right about the toilet but as Julie made her way back to the ruai, she met a group of children playing outside. Some of the boys were scampering up a tall jackfruit tree to collect the heavy, spiked fruit. Two little girls, overcoming their shyness, tugged at Julie’s hand and led her under one end of the longhouse where there was a chicken coop containing some recently hatched chickens. One of the girls reached in and brought out a chicken for Julie to stroke. In a large bamboo cage nearby perched a sleek cockerel, which Julie assumed was a fighting cock.
By now it was late afternoon and the evening bathing ritual began. Julie was wearing a swimsuit under her shorts and shirt, but Chitra emerged from the long-house in a sarong and the two of them followed the other sarong-clad Iban women upriver while the men headed in the opposite direction.
In the river all the women chattered as they washed their long glossy hair, dunking themselves into the cool water. Chitra let her own dark hair swing loose, and to Julie she appeared to be at home in the water, like a sleek seal, her large, dark eyes shining. Julie floated and drifted away from the women until a voice called to her and she stood up, looking around.
A man was standing on the bank and while he was an Iban with the traditional long hair tied back in a smooth, knotted ponytail, his skin a deep honey colour, his features finely drawn, he looked out of place here because he was wearing aviator sunglasses, a stylish watch, and a pale-blue safari-style shirt tucked into well-cut shorts.
‘Be careful, there are sharp rocks a little further along, near the men’s pool,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’ Julie scrambled to her feet, the water swirling above her knees. ‘It’s just so refreshing.’
He nodded and turned, heading towards the longhouse.
As the Iban women walked back along the path carrying babies and watching their children frolicking, Julie asked Chitra about the man she’d seen.
‘A boat just came up. That’ll be Charles, Tuai James’s son. The old chief’s grandson. He works in Kuching in the police force.’
By now the visitors were becoming less of a novelty, and life in the longhouse proceeded as normal with the preparation of the evening meals and children to be fed and soothed, although it seemed to Julie the children were allowed to do as they wished and were not scolded. They clambered over the old people, played with the dogs and ran along the tanju squealing with joy. But Julie soon learned that the older children had tasks to do, carrying water, winnowing rice and picking out any fragments of husk, chopping wood, feeding the animals, and learning to repair the fishing nets.
‘Don’t they go to school?’ Julie asked Chitra.
She shrugged. ‘They are not forced to go. Travel is difficult and if they stay at a school in a town, the children don’t like to be away from their families. The old chief Jimbun is trying to keep the old ways going and because these people are so far away from any of the towns, it’s possible. But his son James is more inclined to value education, which is why his son Charles has such a good job.’
‘No TV, no radio, no internet, I suppose that helps this to stay a backwater,’ said Julie. ‘I feel really privileged to experience it, while I can.’
David came and sat beside them. ‘Yes, enjoy this while it’s still here. It’s a disappearing lifestyle. The cash economy is encroaching. The Iban grow rubber and pepper and sell woven cloth, blowpipes and carvings to traders but self- sufficiency is becoming harder. And the Iban also like modern things, like outboard motors and kerosene lamps.’
The meal, served on the woven floor mats, was made up of bowls of rice, dried fish, pieces of chicken and some root vegetables with fresh fruit. A bowl of water was passed to w
ash hands and then the food was shared. As darkness fell, oil lamps were lit. Some of the young girls, wearing glass bead necklaces, knelt in their short wrap skirts to play music on a set of small gongs.
As children fell asleep and the women sat in the background quietly talking, the tuak was brought out again and David, sitting close to Julie, said, ‘Take a sip and pass the rest to me. Just be glad it’s not a festival. These people know how to party. And dance!’
Charles had now changed out of his western clothes and into a checked sarong. He sat between his father and grandfather. Matthew and David began to ask James questions.
Julie listened, but also watched an old lady teaching a younger woman how to make the pua weavings with the intricate designs that had been handed down for generations. Matthew had told her that in the old days every man took a human head as a fertility rite, while every woman wove an heirloom blanket. Happily, he added, the men no longer take heads, but the weaving continues.
But tonight the talk was of tomorrow. And the tomorrows to come.
‘The government has moved some Iban longhouse communities,’ said David. ‘And apparently some of these people like the new settlements and the new-style modern longhouses.’
Tuai James shook his head. ‘That is true, but they no longer own their land, and they cannot practise the old ways of farming. The younger people go away to school and when they come back they do not always respect our customs. They are clumsy in the prau and have little knowledge of adat, the law.’
‘Four thousand people have been moved out,’ said David. ‘Surely your time will come too.’
Matthew looked at Charles. ‘The dams? That’s the biggest threat isn’t it?’
Julie turned to Chitra. ‘What dams?’ she asked.
But before Chitra could reply, old Tuai Rumah Jimbun began thumping the floor and shouting in poor, but very understandable, English, ‘We will not move! Come what may! We will fight, as some of the Penans fought.’
‘But they still lost their land, their forests are logged, highways eat into the jungle and their way of life is gone. The animals are gone. The politicians, the men in the suits in the cities and their friends get rich,’ snapped his son Tuai James.
