A FULL BELLY IS OFTEN equated with happiness and contentment. In most Asian cultures, many hosts would take it quite personally if a guest were to leave with an empty stomach, and hence, would go to great lengths to ensure all are fed and fed well.

But we don’t turn to food merely to fill our bellies. What we eat also represents our belief systems and is often related to religious and cultural occasions. Food thus becomes not just nourishment for our bodies but also for our souls. It also serves as a medium through which social and familial bonds are strengthened.

Below (in no particular order), are just a few examples of how what we eat transcends more than just satisfying hunger pangs.

Rituals and offerings
The ‘miring’, is a ritual practiced by the Dayaks to honour the gods (Petara), holy spirits and ghost spirits (Orang Panggau and Bunsu Antu) and the souls of their ancestors (Petara Aki-Ini).

Common ‘piring’ or ritual offerings include cooked rice, glutinous rice, hardboiled eggs, raw eggs, tuak (traditional rice wine), tobacco, salt, betel nuts, and popped or puffed rice. Sometimes animal offerings are also carried out, with chickens being the sacrifice of choice for smaller ceremonies, and pigs for larger occasions.

‘Miring’ is held during significant occasions such as Gawai Dayak which marks the end of the harvest season.

Similarly, the Indian community marks the end of the harvest season by celebrating Ponggal, one of the biggest events in the Hindu calendar. On the first day of the Thai month, milk is placed in a claypot and cooked over an open fire with rice and sugar added later until the milk boils over, signifying overflowing happiness and a bountiful harvest for the family.

Customs and Practice
Chu hua yuan, the Teo Chew practice of biting a cooked chicken head, can herald an auspicious start to adulthood.

Literally translated as ‘leaving the garden’, this coming-of-age ceremony marks the end of childhood where participants who were under the care of their parents (like a garden), embark on the journey of adulthood and are entrusted with responsibilities and obligations as matured individuals.

Participants usually take part in ‘chu hua yuan’ when they are aged 15, but it is common for older children to participate as well. The ceremony is usually held on the seventh day of the seventh month of the Chinese lunar calendar. It begins with the participants washing their faces with floral water to symbolise getting rid of bad luck and leaving their childish ways behind, before putting on new, red coloured t-shirts and red clogs.

As is common with many other Chinese ceremonies, there will also be eating of auspicious dishes symbolising aspirations and blessings for the participants. The highlight of the ceremony will see each participant biting the head of a steamed whole chicken.

This part of the ceremony is often attributed to a Teochew scholar, Lin Daqin, who lived during the Ming dynasty. As the story goes, Lin’s family was very poor so he could only wear red clogs, as opposed to better footwear, to school. One day, he met an elder who promised to give him a chicken if Lin could help him complete a couplet. The precocious boy did so, and happily took his prize home to his family. Lin’s father gave the boy the head of the cooked chicken to bite, in the hope that he would accomplish great things.

‘Chu hua yuan’ is a fading custom although there are efforts from various quarters, mostly Teochew clan associations, to keep the practice alive.

To give another example, in many Asian cultures, the humble chicken egg is a symbol of new life and fertility. It’s no surprise then that this pantry essential is at the centre of many Asian customs.

In Chinese culture, red-dyed hard boiled eggs are often featured in full moon celebrations, a get-together to mark one month since a baby’s birth and the end of the mother’s confinement period. Traditionally, the gathering is also to formally introduce the baby to extended family and friends.

The colour red in Chinese culture represents luck, good fortune and blessings. In the old days, the eggs got their red colour from being wrapped in red paper and hard boiled, with the red colour seeping into the egg shell during the cooking process. Another method was to rub the wet red paper onto the eggs. Nowadays, food-safe dyes are used to impart the red colour instead. It is also believed that if the baby is a boy, one would give out an odd number of eggs, while for baby girls, it would be an even number

Ching YY believes having a good plan is half way to success but often takes the scenic detour because it’s more fun and enlightening, and she has a terrible sense of direction.

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#38KINO2019

KELIRIENG by Dr Antonio J. Guerreiro

THE VANISHING MONUMENTAL HERITAGE OF SARAWAK

AMONG THE MOST OUTSTANDING BUILDINGS which have been made in Sarawak, the burial poles have no direct parallels elsewhere in Borneo. Their importance is such that several lies in the collection of the Sarawak Museum. They have become an official Sarawak State gift to West Malaysia. Two poles, one Punan Ba and one Sekapan kelirieng, are now standing on the Muzium Negara grounds in Kuala Lumpur, while another one found its way to Brunei.

Among the various peoples known as ‘Orang Ulu’ – Kayan, Kenyah, Kajang, Punan Ba, and Berawan to name a few – and the Melanau local groups in the coastal areas, there is a wide range of wooden items showing carved ornamentation. The most common timber used for large monuments, kelirieng burial poles or salong mausoleums, is ironwood (Eusideroxylon zwageri T. de B.), named belian or kayu besi in Malay. The wood is very dense, showing a tight grain. Ironwood grows mostly in the lowlands as in the BintuluTubau and the Niah areas. The straight section of the trunk, free of branches, is between 6 and 20 metres and it might weigh several tons. That is why it has been preferred for making large posts and burial poles. The carver’s traditional tools are simple: the adze-axe beliung, which changes function according to the blade’s position on the shaft, and then the bush knife (parang) serves for cutting the wood down to size. The carved ornamentation in high or low relief is added to the piece later, using gouges and knives of different sizes. Usually, the larger pieces such as longhouse posts or burial poles are lying on the ground during these phases.

Punan Ba – Sama Klirieng at Long Beleti’ during the 1981 Sarawak Museum’s survey of burial posts in Belaga District. It shows the ancient designs such as the ‘net’(mata jalo’). The man is the middle is the Museum’s team survey leader Encik Joseph Ingai Gasing with his Punan Ba assistants Sagit Sapua’ (Ake Nyuan) on his left and Encik Anye’ Mibau (Ake Leduang) and his right.

They are capped either by a heavy flat stone slab, a wooden upper framework or, more rarely, by a burial chamber – especially among Berawan and related peoples in the Baram area. These poles, which were used at the occasion of a secondary burial (nulang) as a prestige funerary rite provided for aristocrats and leaders in the community, including their family members, are made of a whole belian tree trunk. The bones of the dead were cleaned and placed in ceramic jars (tajau, gusi) as part of a lavish ritual. Metcalf noted that some lijèng mausoleums were supported by two carved posts instead of one. The Seping people in the Belaga River have their own version of this latter type built on two thin and high posts.

Burial poles, variously named kelirieng klirieng, kirieng keliring, keliriang, were made among the Punan Ba in Belaga, the Tetau/Punan Ba people in Kakus, the Punan Pedan and the Punan Minah, on a tributary of the Kemena, besides the Kajang (Kejaman, Sekapan) on the banks of the Baluy River (Belaga). These poles show a high/low relief ornamentation on most of their surface. Smaller poles, called keludan by the Punan Ba, were used for the remains of wealthy commoners of good standing (panyin jiàà) placed on top in a burial jar. These latter poles, about 2.5 to 3 metres high, present only a few carved markings or notches on their surface. In contrast, the tall and massive jerunay of the Melanau Likau in Mukah (many are found in Kampung Tellian) show a little carved decoration on the upper part, around the opening used to hold the burial jar. In Dalat and along the Oya River, the poles named kelidéng, are much less numerous, numerous, famous for their intricate carvings of ‘net’ designs.

Under the capping stone, the Punan Ba poles present an open work section which was meant to hold the burial jar. This upper section is usually carved in the shape of gibbons (kelavet) or anthropomorphic figures, sometimes done as janus heads, symmetrically on both sides. Smaller figures emerging from the larger ones may have other symbolic meanings, such as rebirth.

Detail of the upper section of a kelirieng standing near the clinic at Lo’o Ba. The carved anthropomorphic figure seems to be holding a trophy human head on his shoulder, a very rare occurrence of kelirieng decoration.

Detail of the characteristic spirit face of a Sekapan kelirieng, now on the grounds of the Muzium Negara in Kuala Lumpur.

The Melanau Likou burial poles, such as those standing in Kampung Tellian and some of the older Punan Ba poles, have four prongs where the main jar was placed, as the one in Lo’o Beliti’ on the upper Rejang. In the middle section, separated by rope patterns (talé, taléy), representing a wild creeper, two vertical cavities were hollowed at the back of the pole. These served to insert either other burial jars and/or smaller coffins (lungun), especially those made for children or elderly people, whose bones were placed vertically with the skull on the top near the opening. Eventually, the lower section of the poles might have included other cavities or not. The different sections of the Kajang and Punan Ba posts are carved in deep relief with the faces of protecting spirits (hudo,’ udo,’ otu) and geometric or curvilinear ornaments in both high relief and low relief, i.e. spirals (ikang, ikéang, kelikuang), aso,’ human and animal bodies, and other smaller figures, some looking like birds. On older poles (Punan Ba, Melanau Likau in Oya area), the refined ‘net design’ (mata jalo,’ jala’) executed with variations of shapes, is noticeable.

Significantly, the sacred dimension of these monuments and the taboos surrounding them were also linked to the practice of human sacrifice. This was actually a similar practice to that of the Kayan who built instead the artistocratic salong. The blood-letting accomplished by human sacrifice – for which the Melanau slaves were slaughtered, crushed in the pole pit or even attached to the pole until they died of hunger  – was deemed necessary to achieve the ritual efficacy of the pole. Perhaps, the origin of the practice derived from eschatological ideas of ‘rebirth’ and that of the compensation involved in the sacrifice. In short, the intangible cultural heritage connected to the poles (tales, myths, beliefs, technical knowledge…) needs to be recorded as much as possible.

The conservation of this monumental heritage has been carried out by the Sarawak Museum Department. A pilot survey took place in Belaga in 1981 under the direction of Joseph Ingai Gasing, the Museum’s technical officer, followed by others, before the Bakun hydro project was implemented. The four burial poles presently in the Museum’s collection came from different periods and they were moved to various places on the Museum grounds between 1925 and the 1980s. Interestingly, each one of the poles came in from a different place: Long Pila, Belaga; Sungei Ud, Dalat; Long Segaham, Belaga (the latter being the unique double kelirieng) Sungai Ba or upper Rejang. These poles range from about 4.78 metres high, for the smallest, to above 11 metres for the tallest. Now conservation work is also needed on these poles, especially if they are to stay in the open. Probably, it would better for the most fragile ones to be moved inside the new Sarawak Museum building.

The protection of the burial poles still standing or lying on their original sites in Sarawak raises many concerns. Until now, there has been no conservation plan to keep them in good condition. However, some have been registered under the first Sarawak Heritage Ordinance drafted by the Sarawak Museum (1993). At community level, individual initiatives have taken place to protect endangered poles. For instance, the Punan Ba people have consolidated and re-erected the sheds built by the Museum team where the oldest poles have been found on sites in the upper Ba River (L. Sematay, L. Ayo, L. Punan). These poles have an important cultural and historical value for the community. The two oldest ones found at Lo’o Sematay might be as old as the mid17th century. They mark the identity of the Punan people in the area and connect them with their past and first known leaders, the rival brothers – or perhaps cousins – Kavu’ Oko and Kavu’ Oka. Later, between the 1840s and 1880s, many burial poles were built on the banks of the Rejang and upriver in Belaga, among the Kajang (Sekapan, Kejaman). The Punan poles erected in Tatau at Rantau Belak seem to date from the same period, when James Brooke’s rule was being established in the interior of Sarawak. The related lijèng found on the Tinjar and Tutoh Rivers of the lower Baram area in the Berawan’s territory are even more endangered.

If nothing is done to save them, these masterpieces of woodcarving that are still in the open will have vanished by the 2030s. Many have already crumbled in the forest and on river banks. Standing under the elements, the huge belian trunks used to make them cannot last for eternity. When covered by the vegetation growth, they start to decay, the moisture being harmful to the timber. Since 2017, during field surveys in Belaga district, Baram, and Tinjar, I came upon many damaged and ruined burial poles and mausoleums that are vanishing, literally disintegrating into the ground. Even the Pandan’s klirieng (Punan Ba), on the banks of the Kemena River, whose lower section is sealed in a cemented base, is currently slanting and the risks of its collapsing are growing everyday. Hopefully, a comprehensive salvage plan can be developed with the help of the State government, NGOs and Dayak cultural foundations. There is actually an urgency to it, this important cultural heritage being unique to Sarawak.

Dr. Antonio J. Guerreiro, initially trained in architecture and social and cultural anthropology, later moved on to museography. Since the 1980s he has published extensively on Malay/Indonesian ethnic cultures, specializing on Borneo. He is currently senior researcher at the Institut de Recherches sur l’Asie (IrASIA, CNRS/Aix-Marseille Université). Besides, he is Secretary-General Society of Euroasiatic Studies at the Musée du Quai Branly, Paris.

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Gajah Olen is traditional wear from the Sarawak Malay community, used during the wedding ceremony when the bride and groom are presented on a bridal dais (bersanding) or during ‘berlulut’ (a ceremony where the bride is presented in a series of dress up sessions; for some it is the hennastaining or the berinai” ceremony).

In the past, this special bridal wear was widely used especially in Kuching, Samarahan, Sri Aman and in some other parts of Sarawak.

Gajah Olen is also known as Jah Olen, Rajah Olen and Raja Olen. The term, Gajah Olen is most likely to be taken from Javanese word Gajahan, which means crown or a head jewellery. Olen or Oleng is likely to be derived from the word ‘teroleng-oleng’ which means something that is swaying, moving or vibrating.

In this sense, Gajah Olen could probably best refer to the combination of glittering golden head accessories on the bride’s head that look as if they are swaying or moving, akin to the flapping of the elephants’ ears. There is no doubt that there is an element of Javanese influence in this traditional wear, especially in its patterns and styles — and potentially Chinese too, especially when referring to the Phoenix-shaped coronets believed to have started being worn by female aristocrats during the Han dynasty (circa 206 BC–220 AD).

Ku lihat ayu langkahnya si Puteri Darul Hana Diiringi geronchong kaki rancak bergemericing jak bunginya Wajah berseri mempersona ber-Gajah Olen bak puteri diraja Bakal dijembak di pelaminan tanda sudah berpunya.

(This pantun further highlights the exquisite beauty of Princess Darul Hana in all her Gajah Olen bridal finery.)

Berbaju beludu, berkain berunei, bertudung keringkam serta bermaskuta Diserikan lagik kepih dahi, sisir, kepih sanggul dan gemerlapan pedakak Makin lah kacak si sang Puteri kita Disempurnakan pesona lolek, bunga tajuk dan si gelang aluk

(This pantun describes the beautiful Princess Darul Hana walking gracefully to the wedding dais to meet her betrothed. In her complete regal Gajah Olen emsemble, her face glows with happiness as she announces her arrival with the tinkling sound of her anklets.)

Rambut lebat hitam sang pengantin disanggul rapi Sanggul Lipat Pandan nama diberi Rasa gemuruhnya hati si Puteri Berdebar menjadi Raja Permaisuri sehari

(Here, the pantun tries to capture the stunning image of the bride’s bun, which is uniquely strengthened by the fragrant pandan leaves. Even in all her exquisiteness and ornate hair do, nervousness and anxiety refuses to part with her on her big day.)

Not many people also know that Gajah Olen has different designs depending on what the owners and what the tukang hias (bridal make-up artists) would have in their personal collections. However, the must-have ornaments include the kepih dahi, the mahkota or maskuta (crown) and the kepih sanggul2 , all usually made from gold-plated silver. For the more affluent owners or tukang hias, they would have these accessories made from pure gold.

Indah nian penyatuan berkat Ber-Gajah Olen mengekal lestari Semoga kekal berzaman kesinambungannya adat Buat tatapan dan kebanggaan semua generasi

(The final pantun expresses the sense of relief over a lovely and blessed union. And it is hoped that the traditions of Gajah Olen will be kept alive as part of our proud customs and heritage, especially for the future generation.)

The Gajah Olen bridal wear consists of five main components that are all must haves for a bride to perfectly shine on her big day which are:
(1) the perhiasan kepala or head accessories which include the elaborate coronets-like decorations for the head also known as the mahkota or maskuta (a three-layer crown), kepih dahi (an accessory or diadem for the forehead), sisir (comb), kepih sanggul and bunga tajuk3;

(2) the baju or blouse is usually made from red or black velvet, lace or brocade materials and decorated with elaborate metal pieces with a variety of distinctive flora and fauna motifs. This three-quarter sleeve blouse with a round-neck design will also have a fivetier gold pedakak (bib-like necklace) sewn onto it (Hajah Maimunah, 1998);

(3) the tapeh or the golden songket (sarong) used by the bride is one of these three distinctive Kain Songket Melayu Sarawak known as Kain Berunei (spotted or scattered pattern), Kain Belatak (full pattern) or Kain Berturus (striped pattern);

(4) the tudung keringkam, an exquisite traditional headscarf worn by Malay ladies (woven with intricate designs using gold or silver threads) adds more sparkle to the whole ensemble when placed on the bride’s shoulders;

(5) other jewellery or additional ornaments such as:

(a) lolek – a pair of diamond earrings
(b) gelang aluk or gold-plated bangles to be worn on both sides of the bride’s hands (a minimum of 3 to 11 pairs on each side; these gelang aluk also come in different sizes where one usually starts wearing the smallest one at the wrists and bigger ones worn at the elbows)
(c) tali pinggang or the gold or silver belt used to tie the tapeh songket around the bride’s waist with its large buckle known as the pending.
(d) a pair of geronchong kaki or anklets (usually silver or gold-plated) for the bride’s feet. In addition, Gajah Olen also involves another key element that is the use of Sanggul Lipat Pandan, where this specially-made hair grip made from pandan leaves is used to make an upright bun that acts like a frame for all the head accessories to sit on. The use of pandan leaves will also make the bride’s hair smells fragrant.

Bear in mind, the entire collection of accessories can easily weigh up to 3kg! However heavy, challenging and timeconsuming it is to put them on, these stunning accessories would definitely add that special touch of elegance to the bride. As Leviani (2017) wrote: “the symbolic meaning embedded in each headpiece also makes it much more than just an accessory. In fact, the wedding crown is as important as the bride’s attire itself!”

The existence of Gajah Olen in the Sarawak Malay society can be proven via a published record as early as the mid nineteenth century, during James Brooke’s administration. It was highlighted by Harriette McDougall in her book, Sketches of Our Life at Sarawak (1882) when she attended the wedding ceremony of Datu Temenggong’s grandson, Matussin with Nakhoda Sadum’s daughter where she wrote:

“I looked about for the bride, and saw a crowd of women in one corner, and a boy holding a gilt umbrella over the young lady, who was being shaved. A woman with a razor was shearing her eyebrows into a delicate line, and all round her forehead, trimming disorderly hairs. Four women, seated on their heels in front of her, were fidgeting over her face; she, impassive as a log in their hands. A vast deal of singing and drumming went on all the time, a row of musicians keeping it up all round the room. The girl was washed; then her hair, magnificent black hair down to her heels, knotted in two great bows on either side of her head. Over these, gold ornaments like wings were fixed, and a little tower of gold bells above them. Then the women painted a black band round her forehead, and added a silver edge to it, also painted”.

Thanks to Harriette McDougall’s anecdotal observation and delicate attention to details of the ceremony, not only that we are able to learn a lot from one of the earliest recorded instances of Gajah Olen in a traditional Sarawak Malay wedding dated nearly 140 years ago, but also to further appreciate our own priceless traditions.

Although now not many brides today would choose to don Gajah Olen on their big day (potentially due to lack of knowledge of its existence and its meaning as well as what it represents), there are still some brave brides who prefer to go the old-school way and revive this age-old tradition and its timeless charm.

Tracing the owners and tukang hias who still keep the full set of the Gajah Olen costume proves to be a daunting task as not many would have them. One of the Gajah Olen owners who is often used as reference is Puan Hajah Kazuliah Mohamad Taufek. Fondly known as Mak Haji Kajuk, she is one of the most famous and sought-after mak andam (tukang hias or bridal make-up artist) in Kuching. She is nearly 80 years old now but is still active and shows no sign of retiring any time soon. Inherited from her well known and respected tukang hias mother, her family’s original collection of Gajah Olen is one of the oldest known that still exists today.

Besides Mak Haji Kajuk’s collection, there are also other variations of the Gajah Olen collections owned by the family of YBhg Dato Sri Hafsah Harun, the families of the late Puan Bahjah and the late Puan Hajah Yah — these heirloom pieces are estimated to be over 100 years old. The original Gajah Olen collection is usually inherited from one generation to another, especially from a long line of tukang hias.

Though the use of Gajah Olen is said to have declined around the 1950s and 1960s, this waning symbol of beauty has now been slowly (and steadily) revived with more awareness emphasised on the value of this special bridal wear, especially from the historical and cultural aspects of Sarawak.

With more awareness on the importance of restoring the splendour of Gajah Olen to the Sarawak Malay community and for the new generation in particular, more intensive efforts are needed to further highlight Gajah Olen in cultural and tourism events as well as weddings.

Not only these efforts are expected to revitalise Gajah Olen, it is also to ensure that it will not extinct. Modernisation and the new generation’s take on simplicity may have potentially made it impractical or ‘too bothersome’ to wear, but for what it is worth in the Sarawak heritage, the value of Gajah Olen is worth sustaining and preserving especially for the future generations.

After all, which bride would say no to something old (to have said symbolises continuity), something new (represents an optimistic future), something borrowed (the idea of borrowed happiness), something winged and gold (gold equals prosperity indeed!) and to doses of age-old elegance on her wedding day for that extra good luck and charm?

In 2016, Liza met Amirul & Danny (budding embroiders with profound love of Keringkam Sarawak, Songket Sarawak and Gajah Olen) at a Keringkam & Songket event, and immediately formed a strong bond based on their mutual love and appreciation of the culture, heritage and history of Sarawak. They also co-founded the Persatuan Warisan dan Kesenian Keringkam Sarawak, a registered society meant for taking care of the well-being, continuity and sustainability of Tudung Keringkam Sarawak. – Liza Sideni

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This rather sensationalist conclusion has had a long, stubborn history. As soon as James Brooke’s first exploits in Sarawak began circulating in England during the 1840s did the press seize on the ripe, exotic tales of pirates and savages in far-off tropical climes. The excerpt above, taken from a newspaper article in 1859, already shows the long-lasting connection made between Dayaks and headhunting.

Enemy heads were also a symbol of renewal and fertility for the takers. When a victorious war party returned bearing heads, the women would go out to meet them as part of an elaborate ceremony, asking them what “fruits” the men had “plucked” for them.

But why the fascination? Firstly there was the seductive image of James Brooke as alone, heroic and civilizing force amidst a backward, warlike people; it dovetailed neatly with the Victorian British idea of Britain’s place and mission in the world as the British Empire reached its apogee. What could be more proudly British than this intrepid gentleman-adventurer, who at great personal cost had tamed a wild, lawless people, and placed them on the upwards road to happy civilization? James Brooke’s war on slavery and headhunting, taken up by his nephew and heir Charles, was a testament to Britain’s positive influence on the world.

There is evidence, however, that the Rajahs’ much-publicised aversion to headhunting was merely a rather soft hammer used for particular purposes only. It was outlawed and punished only when it interfered with the Rajahs’ rule or disturbed the peace within the state. When Dayak groups rebelled against the Rajah, as in the case of the famous Iban leader Orang Kaya Aji who led the Saribas and Skrang Ibans against the Brookes at Mount Sadok together with his lead warrior Rentap, the authorities often cited the eradication of customs such as headhunting and slavery as justification for leading punitive expeditions against the offenders.

In comparison, when military expeditions were taken against peoples outside the jurisdiction of the Raj, such as other Dayak intruders from Dutch Borneo, the Sarawak authorities turned a blind eye if their men “took heads” (as the euphemism went) from enemy foreigners or captured them as slaves. Clearly, the Raj was against headhunting only when it ran counter to their interests.

Vernon Kedit, who is a direct descendant of 18th century paramount chief of the Ibans of Saribas, the Orang Kaya Pemancha Dana Bayang, helps to clarify some commonly-held myths about the Dayak custom of headhunting:

Were Ibans the only practioners of headhunting?

Let’s start with the nomenclature. Headhunting is a misnomer. The more accurate and scientific term used in the literature is headtaking.

It was widely practised among the different people groups classed as “Dyak” (the old English spelling for “Dayak”) in Borneo during the Brooke era, by the Bidayuhs, Kayans, and Kenyahs, for example, mostly in times of conflict. For Ibans however, headhunting had a particular and indispensable ritual purpose. It can be said that headhunting had 3 main purposes for the Iban: 1) Expansion, as when Ibans settled in Saribas and drove out or assimilated the inhabitants; 2) Honour, as a mark of bravery for a warrior intent on increasing his personal status; and 3) Ritual, which was and is still highly stylized and inherently pervasive in Iban culture.

A common misconception is that Iban warriors tallied the heads they had taken with tattoos on the neck. However, kills are traditionally tallied by simple lines tattooed in between the knuckles of the hand.

What ritualistic purposes did the Iban attach to headhunting?

In old Iban culture, the period of mourning for a loved one could only be ended by the taking of a head. This was the case when the Saribas Iban leader Dana Bayang presented James Brooke with a lebur api, a ritual cloth designed to receive heads, with a request that the Rajah provide a head to complete the mourning period for Dana’s late wife. As the Rajah had outlawed headhunting in Sarawak, Dana’s expectation was that only the Rajah himself could provide a head for this ritualistic purpose.

Enemy heads were also a symbol of renewal and fertility for the takers. When a victorious war party returned bearing heads, the women would go out to meet them as part of an elaborate ceremony, asking them what “fruits” the men had “plucked” for them. In further ceremonies, the heads were believed to be spiritually transformed into potent objects of benevolence, bringing fertility and success to the members of the longhouse.

In addition, young men were deemed to be worthy warriors only once they had taken a head.

Is it true that only the heads of male warriors could be taken?

Actually, women’s heads, and that of children, were acceptable, but only under specific circumstances. During an attack, women and children were liable to be taken alive as slaves. If a woman picked up a weapon to defend herself, she was fair game, and her head could be taken. However, if she managed to wound her attacker, she was deemed to have successfully defended herself and permitted to go free.

More disturbingly for us today, the head of an anak umbung, a cloistered female child of an enemy leader, was especially prized. That was because such a child would have been guarded by the chief’s lead warriors and breaching their defense was almost impossible.

Even in pre-Brooke times, ritual headhunting was largely confined to declared enemies in times of conflict. Indiscriminate headhunting was not the norm.

And what about the link between tattoos and headhunting?

A common misconception is that Iban warriors tallied the heads they had taken with tattoos on the neck. However, kills are traditionally tallied by simple lines tattooed in between the knuckles of the hand. As a child, when speaking to an elder male, I often found myself inspecting their knuckles for this telltale sign of honour and achievement. In more recent times, as in the case of the Sarawak Rangers or the Armed Forces, members would tattoo their knuckles to commemorate their kills during military service.

Alan Lau is a Kuching-based architect. He has recently developed a habit of checking the knuckles.

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I spent a scorching afternoon in the house of Seph Haini, as we chatted with his lovely animated grandmother, Dora Basri (86). Dora’s roots are embedded deeply in this village as it was her grandparents who founded Muara Tebas. Her grandfather, Mahammad, became the first Ketua Kampung “village leader” together with his wife, Baidah. Baidah was also the village’s makeup artist, providing “gelangs” (bangles) to adorn brides-to-be, as well as beautifying services and ritual bathing (believed to aid the prewedding skin glow).

Muara (meaning estuary) and Tebas (meaning to cut) has been given many affectionate and less affectionate names over the years. Some know it as “the sleepy village” or “Kampung hujung jalan” (the village at the end of the road). In the early days, the only form of access to the village was via the river and it would take about an hour by boat to get there through the Pending port.

“It’s a Malay fishing village with a hint of Chinese” as per Seph’s description of his home. With a population of 2000 and 320 households, Muara Tebas is only 20km from Kuching centre.

Seph’s grandmother Dora could recall the first Chinese occupant that moved to Muara Tebas shortly after her grandparents, “Alid”. The famous Muara Tebas temple now resides on his land.

When asked about her living conditions in early Muara Tebas, Dora answered gleefully. “We used to live in mini huts, and we were salaried by the Chinese business at the “sirih” plantation to bunch them and arrange them. We got 5 cents a bundle!”

The 200-year-old Chingsan Yan Buddhist Temple overlooks this coastal fishing village and the South China Sea. Its architecture is a wonder, with the bright unapologetic red walls and fine details in every corner.

“There often are sightings of Malays walking up this temple’s steps too. Some of them are employed to work in the temple, and some want to go to over the hill behind the temple to the Malay cemetery to pay their respects.” Seph explained.

The Malays and Chinese in this village display a level of harmony uncommon to our daily viewings. The Chinese here speak fluent Bahasa Sarawak and some of the Malays here work comfortably cleaning the Buddhist temple, which is located mere footsteps away from the local mosque. The burial ground of both races are literally side by side, it was almost a “live together, die together” innuendo being lived out. I asked if there was ever any resistance of unrest among the villagers to which Seph replied casually with a smile, “It’s always been this way, we’re used to it.”

With its beauties, the village also faces its fair share of challenges. Often known as “ulat ticket” (ticket worms), there are a handful of unwarranted carpark fee collectors that occasionally charge hefty prices for visitors to park their cars in the area. This act often deters visitors from dining at the seafood restaurants. Seph hopes to empower the locals to find other meaningful sources of income, and he intends to activate the community to find ways to add value into the lives of visitors.

A great example is the miniature boat maker. He crafts souvenir boats for visitors out of “kayu pelait” (a type of wood sourced from the hills within the local village area). His boats have been purchased by tourists hailing from France, Thailand, Phillipines and China, just to name a few. A man of many talents, he is also the village’s sous chef during occasions such as Ramadan, Buka Puasa (breaking of fast) and weddings (celebrated by the entire village at the local town hall).

By the end of the afternoon, we headed over to have a scrumptious seafood lunch as we brainstormed our hopes and dreams for Muara Tebas. The trip served as a reminder to me that behind every person, every place, are invaluable stories. Stories that have shaped the landscape and the environments of these communities. Unfortunately, not all stories are always highlighted and often some of them go untold. So the next time you head to Muara Tebas to dig into that crab, think of this story, and be grateful for the ancestors of the village that built this hidden gem.

Joyce Khoo grew up hearing the most wonderful stories, including visiting old places like Muara Tebas, from her mother. She realised that with the right storyteller, there’s no such thing as a mundane story.

The post A Coastal Village appeared first on KINO | Kuching In & Out .

The rumah panjang is the romanticized mark of rural Borneo life, common to multiple indigenous communities across Sarawak from the Baram right down to Lundu. The variety is endless. Built of belian, bamboo, nibong, apong and now increasingly bricks and mortar, stretching from a very short four doors to the rambling structure of Annah Rais, a tourist favourite thanks to its proximity to Kuching, this type of building has been the preferred choice of communities across Sarawak since time immemorial. And a choice they are. As world famous anthropologist Peter Metcalf remarks: “no simple feature of ecology or geography requires this peculiar mode of residence.”

Of course, not all Borneo communities live in longhouses and not all longhouses are housed in Borneo, but commentators and academics have expended reams of writings on their existence here and the preference for them. Spencer St. John in 1851 describes ‘Longusin’, a complex of longhouses in the upper Baram housing up to 500 families, as ‘built on lofty poles on hills of various heights, yet appearing to be clustered together, while nearby were numerous little rice stores, neatly whitewashed. I never saw a prettierlooking place.’ Charles Hose, on a visit to a vast longhouse on the Tinjar river, was equally ‘struck by it.’ Housing up to 700 families, in Hose’s estimation, he described it as ‘a quarter of a mile long and supported on magnificent big wooden piles with strong plank floors. Massive piles of ironwood supported the roof at a height of some thirty feet from the ground, and the floor was supported by the same piles at a level seven or eight feet below the cross beams of the roof.’ These were indeed impressive megastructures.

Any variety notwithstanding, they share a common theme that marks out the longhouse from the ubiquitous, low-cost terrace house that populates the world – the use of communal space. St. John writes of ‘a broad covered verandah, as a public room and a sleeping place for the bachelors, while off it were separate apartments for the married people, the young girls and children.’ As architectural historian John Ting puts it: ‘Longhouses are generally sited parallel to rivers and streams. Generally speaking, longhouses are made up of a series of individual raised pile houses (or ‘apartments’) constructed together in a row. A covered gallery for the use of the whole longhouse runs parallel to the row of apartments, and is of the same total length. A gabled roof over the gallery and apartments runs along the whole building, and the attic space within is also used. In some cases (with Iban and Bidayuh longhouses) a wide, unroofed balcony runs beside the covered gallery. The ground level is not inhabited and left as storage and shelter for domestic animals, while the longhouse group inhabits the first floor level, as well as the attic in some cases.

Together, it is this unusual configuration of space that reflects longhouse life, or perhaps longhouse life has been shaped by it. Using Iban terms, it is the ruai that makes the longhouse. Running the whole length alongside the tempuan (the open passageway that runs between the ruai and each bilek), this space belongs to all. It is a gathering spot for evening randau, communitywide conversations at the end of the day. It is for funerals and festivities. It is for the welcoming of guests and the provision of hospitality. Each family might enjoy its own place; the open air tanju is for individual farming purposes – the drying of pepper, the winnowing of padi, the mending of nets and occasionally for family rituals such as Ngangau ke Petara (roughly translating to ‘Calling the Heavens); and the covered bilek, also individual to each family, would be for sleeping and cooking.

But in reality, the lines between adjoining families are blurred. Mornings would see the tanju full of conversation as people passed on their way to the river, as if around the kampung watercooler, and bilek were incredibly porous as neighbouring family members would cut holes in walls for easy access from one kitchen to the next. Notoriously, the attic space would be a late-night passageway for intrepid young men to negotiate on their way to ‘ngayap’ or visit young ladies that had caught their fancy. Births would take place in the bilek but with the entire community in attendance, the expectant mother’s only claim to privacy being flimsy tikar bemban (woven mats) hung to hide her from eyes if not from every exclamation on her progress.

For many cultures across the world, this level of community involvement would be unthinkable but, as Metcalf puts it: ‘if you were to ask the longhouse residents, they would simply say there is no other civilized way to live.’ The longhouse created connection – for work, for play, for worship and even for warfare – that saw each community operating almost as a single, combined unit. It reflected their cosmology. John Ting, referencing Roxana Waterson, says: this placed humans within a greater universe that also contained the spiritual and animal worlds, and the longhouse was a microcosm of that cosmos. Humans occupied the middle level, the animals occupying the separate ground level, and the spirit world occupying the attic spaces. In other words, they saw themselves as being separate to nature and the spirit world, and with nature being able to be heavily influenced by the spirit world.’

In fact, it might well be the loss of this cosmology to the conversion to Christianity that has overseen the changes in longhouse life. Despite the descriptions of their impressive size and stature, the longhouse of old was rarely meant to last. As communities grew or divided, cultivation fell or in the terrible case of a longhouse fire, the time would come for a dramatic and difficult new phase of construction, often in a new location, leaving tembawai or old longhouses derelict across the landscape. But this would require an understanding of mali (bad omens) and later a mimpi (dream) to direct the community to pastures new. As the twentieth century drew in, the practice of pindah (migration) ground to a halt and communities became increasingly rooted to one spot. While longhouses remain in many communities, they are often surrounded on all sides by outlying houses and the longhouse expands no longer. New longhouses are being constructed in more permanent concrete and breezeblock and many families are retreating to their bilek as the connection to the TV or the Internet grows ever stronger.

The love of the longhouse might remain, both for locals and visitors alike, but its life is being eclipsed by migration of a different kind as rural residents seek work in urban centres or even offshore. However, the lessons of the longhouse still permeate Sarawak culture – community, hospitality, tolerance and unity. Perhaps Sarawak as a whole is now the ultimate longhouse that might, this time, last forever.

Karen Shepherd fondly remembers river trips in the early eighties up the Baram and Skrang when the longhouses were full of life and, despite her own selfish need for privacy, firmly believes them to be the source of all that makes Sarawak special – community, connection, hospitality and tolerance. Long may they live!

The post History and Architecture of the Longhouse appeared first on KINO | Kuching In & Out .

Zikir marhaban pembuka acara
Merafak kesyukuran ke hadrat
Ilahi Riang merai Aqisha dan Alyssa
Majlis aqiqah penuh tradisi

3-month old Aqisha Laura Aisyah binti Mohammad Nasreen Adam and her 2-month old cousin, Anggun Alyssa binti Mohammad Nazrin Adam shared their ‘welcoming ceremony’ or Aqiqah (Islamic tradition of sacrificing an animal on the occasion of a child’s birth) and Bercukur (newborn’s first haircut or shave), an essential celebration for welcoming newborns in a Muslim family.

The practice of Aqiqah is usually held on the seventh day after the baby is born. There would also be additional prayers called the berzanji marhaban as part of the well wishes for the baby, where members of the neighboring mosque or surau (known as the kariah masjid) recite prayers and sing praises for Prophet Muhammad SAW – all beautifully done with the intention of receiving blessings from the Almighty. Usually during the berzanji marhaban, the baby’s hair is cut or shaved, and then its weight in gold or silver is offered as a donation or alms to the poor or orphaned. It is also on this Aqiqah day that the little bundle of joy would then be gifted with the most beautiful name.

The most important aspect of Aqiqah, nonetheless, is the slaughtering or the sacrifice of an animal – usually a goat, a sheep, a cow, or even a camel – which is seen as a way for the parents to show their gratitude to Allah the Almighty for being blessed with a new child. Following the hadith of Prophet Muhammad SAW, he advised two sheep for a boy and one for a girl.

The practice of Aqiqah is considered a Sunnah in Islam, and therefore not obligatory; so it is no sin for those who do not do it, especially when the family can’t afford it. However, it can be delayed until the family is able to do it or at a later stage carried out by the child himself or herself once he or she has reached puberty.

It is also important to note that in Islam, there are precise conditions when choosing the slaughter: the animal must reach a certain age, must be healthy and free of defects and the slaughter must be carried out in the most appropriate humane way with prayers offered before the sacrifice.

It is also the usual practice that one-third of the meat is given to the poor and the rest is served during the ceremony to neighbors, friends and relatives.

The name seems to make more sense here as ‘Aq in Arabic means ‘to cut’. This could be attributed to the newborn’s first haircut or first shave and it could also refer to the act of sacrificing an animal.

Tenang si kecil rambut digunting
Dititip cincin emas simbolik rezeki
Dipanjatkan doa jadi solehah penting
Dunia akhirat dirahmati Ilahi

Aqisha and Alyssa’s parents decided to have only the haircut done during the ceremony, leaving the clean shave for later. Islam encourages a clean shave for babies so that all the impurities that come from the womb can be removed – this allows for new hair to grow more healthy and more beautiful.

It is interesting to see how the Islamic rites and Malay traditions are interwoven in the Aqiqah and Bercukur ceremony. One that is clearly not an Islamic rite, but widely practiced in the Malay culture is placing the baby’s hair that has been cut into coconut water (said to be a Hindu influence). Though the majority of Muslim scholars are opposed to this practice, most Malays believe that there isn’t anything wrong with carrying out the adat (tradition) — it is simply an ageold tradition that does not involve any practice of idolatry or polytheistic worship other than Allah SWT.

Many of the elders whom I spoke to with regards to the use of coconut water stood by the practice: it is believed that by placing the cut hair inside the coconut water, the newborn will grow up as someone with a very calm personality, not hot tempered, akin to the cooling properties of coconut water. Back in the 1970s and 1980s, coconuts were neatly carved and widely used in the Bercukur ceremony. Once the ceremony was over, the whole coconut was then planted in the backyard.

Aqisha and Alyssa too had their cut hair placed in coconut water – as with their two elder sisters, Sofea and Ayudia back in 2014 and 2015. In fact, I was told by my mum that all the children in ‘our clan’ had had the same ritual done: the placing of cut hair in coconut water, the ‘tepung tawar and merenjis air mawar’ ceremony, lightly dabbing gold (usually in the form of a gold ring) onto the newborn’s parts of the body (often on the forehead, mouth, hands and legs) as a symbol of wishing him or her all good fortune and prosperity (the notion of ‘murah rezeki’ in Malay).

There’s always that fine line between religion and tradition – I am not a religious authority nor am I a culture or heritage expert. What I could see still being practiced in most Malay traditions (my family in particular) is merely carried out as part of upholding and appreciating hundred of years of traditions – one can’t help but have that immense sense of appreciation, of pride — and the sense of accomplishment upon the completion of the ceremony. For someone who tries to love and appreciate cultures, the embedded message behind every ritual, every prayer or incantation read, watching the council of elders ‘do what they do best’ in perfecting the ceremony, I can’t help but have that sense of awe. Perhaps this is what is meant by the Malay adage: tak lekang dek panas, tak lapuk dek hujan (customs that remain intact, not eaten by time).

Ibu si kecil cantik berkeringkam
Merah dan biru manis sulamannya
Adat tradisi bukan hanya amalan silam
Ia pegangan pengekal budaya

One main thing remains for sure: by showing one’s gratitude to Allah SWT through the practice of Aqiqah and Bercukur, it strengthens not only the bond between the child and his/ her parents but sustains the brotherhood among the family members, relatives and neighbours who attended the ceremony (not forgetting the delicious food served too!). At the end of it all, it is done for the sake of the new bundle of joy.

Liza Sideni enjoys literature, history and travelling – her other love includes Linut, kopi-peng kaw & DATUK SHEILA MAJID©! When she is not guarding the fort (Brooke Gallery) she scribbles on her current love, the Keringkam or re-watches The Nanny. She firmly believes education is the best way to empower women and girls to make that big difference in life.

The post Preserving the Right Rites of Passage appeared first on KINO | Kuching In & Out .

Born in Singai, Bau District, Sarawak in 1939, Raphael Scott Ahbeng was educated in Bath Academy of Arts, United Kingdom. He has been a teacher of the Arts and English language, a cartoonist and even a radio producer. As a painter for over 60 years, RSA is recognised as the most renowned abstract artist from Malaysia Borneo.

I have always been fascinated by the little world around me… which I believe is just as well. When I first started painting so very long ago… my real intention was somewhat selfish. I did not want people to look at what I was trying to do. Those stealing glances made me mad when in fact people were simply trying to give me praise. Art I considered then should be absolutely private and confidential.

After many years of this strange feeling I began to open up… and even tried to do drawings in front of my classmates. That was really the beginning of the art that was to influence my life and lifestyle. I began to nurture this somewhat awkward influence in the year 1954… when I had a proper breakfast, lunch and dinner. I never ate well before that because I had to do all the cooking for myself when I attended primary school. Life in a mission school just after the war was all guesswork. The teachers were sadistic and uncompromising. I was beaten constantly just because my main interest was sketching and drawing.

The Lord was kind when I entered Batu Lintang government primary school in 1954. It was like a pick-me-up… from then on there was no stopping me from becoming the boy who was able to tell jokes through art. Do I think art has been good to me all these years ? I do!

The desire to show that I can produce the best possible image is what drives me. It is the thin line dividing skill and madness that matters.. An anecdote for all my friends and relatives who have had faith in me: “ One king is enough for any kingdom. One good and lasting job is enough for sanity’s sake… art says it all” I have never had it so good. You could be me.

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Introduced to Asia by the Portuguese in the early 16th Century, the humble chilli has become a staple spice in Indian, Chinese and Southeast Asian cuisine. Without chilli there would be no Szechuan kung pao chicken, no sambal, no curry of any type and – unthinkable as it sounds – no Sarawak Laksa.

So what do humans, supposedly the most intelligent of mammals, do when they discover such nasty organisms? Well first they selectively breed them for many generations to massively increase the amount of toxin they produce, and then they eat them.

The plants in question are of course the capsicum family, better known as chillies. And the burning sensation they produce is one of the highlights of many different cuisines, from Mexico to Malaysia and beyond.

The chilli is a native of Central and South America, and was brought to the Old World after the European discovery of America by Columbus, along with a host of other edible or otherwise useful plants we nowadays take for granted*. Introduced to Asia by the Portuguese in the early 16th Century, the humble chilli has become a staple spice in Indian, Chinese and Southeast Asian cuisine. Without chilli there would be no Szechuan kung pao chicken, no sambal, no curry of any type and – unthinkable as it sounds – no Sarawak Laksa.

The power of chillies – their “heat” or spiciness – is determined using the Scoville Scale, which measures the effect of capsaicin (the main active ingredient) and ranges from zero heat units (sweet bell peppers) to 2.2 million heat units (the fearsome Carolina Reaper, current world record holder).

Most of the chillies used in Sarawak are found on the lower to middle part of the scale, as Sarawakians wisely use chillies to season their food rather than show how tough they are.

There are five main types of chillies found in Sarawak – the dozens of different kinds you see in the markets are mostly different sizes or stages of ripeness of these principal five.

Cabik merah or red chilli, also known as cabik lombok, is the most widely used, served fresh when grown locally and dried or powdered if imported from the Indian subcontinent. An Indian derivative of the cayenne pepper, it is a medium strength chilli measuring 30,000 to 50,000 on the Scoville Scale.

Cabik padi or rice-grain chilli is originally a Thai variety that has become a Malaysian staple. It is a tiny, bright red chilli usually used as a condiment with kicap (dark soya sauce) and is the spiciest commonly served in restaurants, measuring 100,000 to 225,000 on the Scoville Scale.

Cabik rawit is an Indonesian variety similar in strength to (and often confused with) cabik padi. It is frequently grown as an ornamental plant due to its bright and erect yellow and red fruits. It is usually dried and ground for making spicy sambals. Cabik hijau or green chilli is probably of Chinese origin and closely related to the Mexican jalapeño. It is a mild chilli, rating 2,000 to 8,000 on the Scoville Scale, and an essential ingredient of kurmas, masak lemak dishes and green curries, as well as a tasty condiment when pickled in vinegar. Cabik gronong or strawberry chilli is the spiciest of Sarawak’s chillies (and often the hardest to find), rating 200,000 to 300,000 on the Scoville Scale. It is most likely a local variant of the habanero.

In Sarawak, cooks don’t pile on the chilli like they do in Terengganu or Padang. Instead, respecting the tastes of others like all good Sarawakians, they cook with only a little chilli to add a subtle bite to the dish – or even none at all – and then leave it up to the diner to add as much spiciness as desired. This can take the form of finely sliced green or red chillies, or even cabik padi, as well as various sambals (chilli pastes) of differing strengths. Visitors with a low chilli tolerance can safely tuck in.

So why do we eat foods that burn and irritate? American psychologist Paul Rozin cites eating chilli as an example of constrained risk, like riding a roller coaster or skydiving, where we voluntarily experience pain and fear in the knowledge that it probably won’t do us any real harm. Dr Rozin’s theory may apply to those who happily eat a plateful of Carolina Reapers and gasp in speechless pain for the next hour or two, but the spicy food lovers I know think turning right in rushhour traffic is a more than adequate adrenalin rush.

I prefer the more common explanation, that capsaicin binds with the receptors in the mouth and throat responsible for sensing heat. These receptors then send a message to the brain that the person has consumed something hot. The brain responds to the burning sensation by raising the heart rate, increasing perspiration and releasing endorphins. And we all know that lots of endorphins make you feel good, so eating chilli is surely a less stressful way of releasing them than running marathons.

The problem with this is that chilli becomes addictive, in everincreasing doses. I had a university roommate from Sumatra who refused to leave the house without a bottle of El Yucateco XXXtra Hot Habanero Sauce and would quietly douse his western meals with this near-radioactive substance. I sometimes wondered whether the people who washed his dishes ever experienced mysterious skin diseases.

Finally, if you eat too much chilli for your own tolerance level, drinking lots of water won’t help. Capsaicin isn’t water-soluble and requires fats or oils to dissolve it, so unskimmed milk or yogurt is a much better bet. This is why lassi is such a popular drink after a spicy Indian curry. However the best safeguard is to take your chilli fix complete with antidote – chilli-flavoured cheese. This wonderful Californian invention combines high-fat Monterey Jack cheese with 500,000-Scoville-Scale red savina habaneros to produce an intense chilli high that fades painlessly after only a few seconds. A case of having your chilli and eating it too.

Mike Reed, originally from London, is a tourism consultant, guidebook writer and self-confessed laksa addict. He came to Sarawak to visit a Gawai Antu 20-odd years ago and has been telling the world about the Land of the Hornbill ever since.

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In some places in Peninsular Malaysia, this could mean multiple burgeoning immigrant populations contained within a single South East Asian nation: you may find yourself in Indonesia, Bangladesh or Vietnam smack in Kuala Lumpur, the difference being a single street or two. But here’s the interesting series of contradictions and paradoxes: there will be places which resemble both Manila’s glitzy Roxas Boulevard and Cambodia’s Wild West at the same time. Still, credit to the person who coined the tagline; people have long attempted to figure out what exactly constitutes Malaysia.

Now if one thinks that visiting a major city in Peninsular Malaysia covers the full range of her people and culture, he’d flip immediately upon setting foot in Sarawak. I know because I did. Witnessing Sarawak’s kaleidoscope of cultures at every turn of the head can overwhelm any first visitor. Sarawak’s 40 or so documented sub-ethnic groups makes it impossible to draw specific boundaries which define Iban, Bidayuh, Melanau, Orang Ulu or even the Malay, Chinese or Indian per se. In addition, they are joined by a dizzying array of intertwined indigenous tribes, some of which are still unaccounted for Sarawak is the true anthropologist’s playground since her cultures vigorously maintain each distinct tradition and community structure, yet blend together to create a uniquely diverse heritage.

Take the Sarawakian Chinese for example. They belong to a wide range of dialect groups such as Cantonese, Foochow, Hakka, Hokkien, Teochew and Hainanese. Despite their cultures and community identities remaining largely intact, there are also many who settled in Malay areas, gradually adopting elements of the local culture and intermarriage with the Malay community. They are the Peranakan or affectionately Baba and Nyonya, culturally evolving into a synthetic set of practices, beliefs and arts combining both Malay and Chinese elements.

Another example of such cultural assimilation is the Malay wedding ceremony, which features Indian traditions where the bride and groom dress in gorgeous brocades, sit in state and feed each other yellow rice with hands painted with henna. Likewise, many Sarawak Malays have adapted the Chinese practice of giving ang pow on their festivals – except that the packets are green and have Arabic calligraphy on them.

While intercultural elements are evident for the three major races of West Malaysia, they are quite impossible to identify here, perhaps due to full mutual assimilation. Take the upriver Orang Ulu spread along Sarawak’s vast interiors in the north. In every longhouse, one would see Kenyah or Kayan folk alongside the Kajang, Kejaman, Punan, Ukit and Penan, not to mention the downriver Lun Bawang tribes, far upstream Berawan and Saban, and even the plateau Kelabits dwelling together.

Indeed, Sarawak – Malaysia’s true blue 1Malaysia state – has several advantages, ranging from food to fashion to festivals. Let’s start with food. Sarawak is widely known to be Borneo’s epicurean paradise. A number of culinary creations are drawn from each constituent native culture to produce what many consider to be Borneo’s best dining experience. These are coupled with colonial and immigrant legacies that further expand the spectrum of delicacies available for all taste buds. The most intimidating culinary experience would be the exotic sago worm that, in some places, is served as a side dish to whatever possible dish served, from the humble banana fritter to fried rice. A good time to remember not to bite off more than you could chew! The cross-cultural trait also ensures the Sarawakian’s morbid fascination for so many variations of the same meal (and often towards the outer limits of the human taste bud), for example a bowl of kolo mee that can be too sweet, too spicy or too salty! Native spices and condiments can be the heart and soul of certain dishes, although the quantity and proportions vary with geographical availability. Akin to south Indian practice, banana leaves are sometimes also used for those wanting a more traditional flavour.

                                       

…many Sarawak Malays have adapted the Chinese practice of giving ang pow on their festivals – except that the packets are green and have Arabic calligraphy on them.

 Cross-cultural elements are also manifested in each and every festival here. Religious festivals, cultural festivals, political festivals, sports festivals, media festivals or just-for-the-heckof- it festivals. We even have kongsi raya (shared festival) when annual community festivals coincide, like Chinese New Year and Hari Raya. No one knows for sure why Malaysians turn up in such large numbers at any kind of parade or festival and there is no shortage of theories to explain this – ranging from the fact that Malaysians are outdoor people to the weakness that Malaysians have for freebies – even if it’s just to collect the balloons! Young and old, rich or poor, Who’s Who and Joe Nobodies all turn up alike.

The easiest way to understand the Sarawakian’s intensive cultural interaction is to appreciate the open door policy maintained during festivals. All her ethnic groups open their doors to everyone else, even during religious festivals. Such inclusivity is more than just a way to dismantle cultural barriers and foster understanding. The better news is that unlike in other parts of the world, you don’t need an invitation so feel free to gatecrash. The secret to enjoying any festival here is simply to turn up! Sarawak is indeed Freddy Freeloader heaven.

Gawai Dayak would be the prime example. Enter any longhouse and watch how outsiders also gather around the ranyai (ceremonial tree) at the ruai (common veranda) of the longhouse. Watch how everyone equally enjoys the merry-making, feasting, drinking of tuak and their own wiggly version of the ngajat.

It’s no secret that people here get along better with each other in a manner those from the other side cannot fathom. Sarawak remains the prime example of cross-cultural assimilation because the multi-tribal psyche forces people to understand each other before expecting to be understood. It forces them to learn with the intention of gaining insight, instead of the intention to disagree.

No belief or position is deemed incontrovertible, hence placing mutual respect and tolerance above all else. The secret lies in unlocking the different tapestries of culture intertwined within the Sarawakian mindset, made up of over 60 tribes. Rudyard Kipling famously said “East is east, west is west and never the twain shall meet”. But if there is any place on earth where “the twain has met”, look no further than Sarawak.

Capt Dr Thiru Jr is an amateur writer and musician outside his day job flying for a leading airline. A regular Joe from Penang, he currently lives in Kuching with his family, and two demanding dogs.

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