THERE IS A STREAK OF green, across the hills west of the river. Younger trees among a forest of old and ancient foliage; the one that his father saw as a young boy and his father before him. Granite boulders rimmed the forest to the east, leading further inland untill they touched the base of the mountain.

No-one ventured that far in, not the elders nor the best of the hunters from his longhouse. It was sacred land, forbidden. A land kept pristine and pure. But the west was game area where all the best hunters ply their skills.

There was a mental map that Meral had drawn, from the countless conversations with the older hunters and especially those he had with his late father. A map of ripe hunting where the deer and wild boar were plentiful, and where the fish swam without fear of the crocodile.

“Draw close to the river, stay upwind from the animal.” He was told. “Follow the footpaths and always keep the sun to your right. And when walking back, keep the sun to your left.”

“When possible, stay on the highground and shoot downwards.”

“Avoid going past the old Belian tree at the bend near the rubber trees. That path leads to the burial grounds.”

“A quick kill is better than having to deal with a wounded animal, especially wild boar,” he was warned. “Kill it quick or else learn to climb a tree as quickly as you can.”

Injured wild boar have charged many a wishful hunter, and there were plenty of his longhouse folks who could attest to it. Yet, a wild boar was the ultimate prize.

In his youth, Meral had brought home squirrels and wild birds. Those were easy for his rubber catapult and sticky glue traps. Yet, bringing home a wild boar was a joyous occasion for the village. He spent many evenings over the makeshift bonfire in the clearing in front of the longhouse, where the hunters would recount the story of the hunt and share their bounty. The weapon of choice for these hunters was the blowpipe. A seven-foot-long hollow staff with a spear tip at the one end.

A rock steady hand on the blowpipe, the draw of breath, the tightness in your chest, and you count your heartbeat as you focus and release a burst of air to send a poison dart forward. A well-placed poison dart would paralyze a boar and a quick stab with the spear point to the throat would ensure a quick death.

There was always enough wild meat to go around for everyone, equal portions of meat for all with double portions to the hunter’s family.

Nothing went to waste.

Wild boar tusks would be made into a necklace, ear lobe pieces or bracelet and provided the hunter with invulnerability. The skins of monkeys and mousedeer or the skin of a monitor lizard were used for the katebong drums, to aid their prayers to the gods.

The skull of the mighty hornbill would adorn a warrior’s headgear, strong and majestic and beautiful. And he wore the hornbill’s feathers on his baju burung, for he was a son of the great Aki Lang Sengalang Burong, the Iban God of War.

The blowpipe is a hunting tool for live food such as wild boars and squirrels.

Ketebong drums were made of hunted animal skin

“Never cut down more than you need, for you never know if it is a spirit’s home.” He had heard the stories. “Ask for permission to pass if you enter the area. And if you meet old man along the path, give him way and don’t say a word.”

At 16 years of age, his father had allowed him to tag along with the hunters, shouldering their packed food and keeping their tobacco and one time they even let him set the fire during an overnight hunt.

“Don’t mistreat your hunting dogs. They are your best friend,” he had learnt. “Do not kill without reason. We are responsible for bringing back food for the longhouse.”

He had married late in his 30s, much to the disdain of his mother. She had hoped he would find a bride before the passing of his father. But life and love at times do not meet nor match.

Selling rubber had given his young family enough to get by, but that was not enough. He eventually found work with the local Chinese contractor, furnishing funeral plots for rich timber tycoons or well-to-do merchants. The money was enough for him to send his two sons to school, but he yearned for simpler times. He yearned for the open hunt, the chase and the victory of bringing home the bacon, literally.

“Hunting is in our blood.” His father had told him, “With the forest, we are content. The forest has always given all that we need. If we need vegetables, we can always pick the midin or paku. If we need meat, we hunt deer or wild boar.”

Being the only son afforded some luxuries to Meral, the greatest one being that he had inherited his late father’s shotgun and the permit to buy ammunition. And as the elders passed on to the everlasting hunting grounds, Meral found himself in a position of privilege. He could lead the hunts by his longhouse.

“Will you take our son with you?” His wife had asked. “The school holidays are coming up and they will need something to occupy their time.”

There is a streak of green, across the hills west of the river. Younger trees among a forest of old and ancient foliage; the one that his father saw as a young boy and his father before him. Granite boulders rimmed the forest to the east, leading further inland untill they touched the base of the mountain. It was here that Meral and his son walked.

The boy had shouldered their supply of food but Meral kept the cigarettes for himself.

He had a pack of hunting dogs with him, 6 strong. The dogs were playful and ran about carefree, for it had been a while since they headed into the jungle to hunt.

At daybreak, Meral led his party out towards the river. It was fruiting season and the wild boars could be found along the river where fruittrees were plentiful.

As they rounded a bend and with the sound of running water near, something in the brush had excited his hunting dogs.

“The dogs will give chase,” He told his son. “Keep up with me or you will be lost to the jungle. I will not have the time to search for you, so you best stay as close as possible.”

The dogs ran.

Meral gave chase, followed closely by his son.

And by evening, Meral was sitting by a fire as his son recounted the tale of how he had hunted and killed a wild boar though he was careful not to tell about how fast it took them to climb a tree. For Meral had hit the wild boar’s thick hide only to realise he had loaded his gun with the wrong type of round. And from the branches of a tree, with his son still very near, he had managed to load the correct type of round and shot the boar dead between the eyes.

“If ever I stop hunting, there are always rubber and palm-oil trees.” He consoled himself, as he reached for his necklace and kissed the wild boar….

“DO NOT KILL WITHOUT REASON. WE ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR BRINGING BACK FOOD FOR THE LONGHOUSE.”

Hunting for the wild boar had its dangers, but it was a hunter’s ultimate prize.

A four-foot-high sculpture immortalises the hunter’s tradition.

Maclean Patrick has published two books, written political commentaries and is active in the activities of the Wordsmiths of Kuching, a Sarawak based poet’s community and SaraLawak, a Kuching based comedy group. Experienced in theatre, spoken word performances and stand-up comedy shows, he was in the Petronas short web-film – Baju Burung Apai released in May of 2019.
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TRADING ALONG THE RIVER by Karen Shepherd

THE SOCIAL LIFE OF THE SARAWAK RIVER

FIRST, A GEOGRAPHY LESSON. RIVERS go through three stages in development – youthful, mature and old age – each stage showing differences in size, speed and behaviour. Of course, this sets up the obvious and slightly feeble joke: what makes a river just like a person? We both start out small, hurtling headlong down cliffs and rocks without care or caution, carving a way through the world, then settle into a more sedate pace worn by the passage of time, and finally we spread out for a leisurely and somewhat aimless meander, occasionally overflowing our banks, before we head out into the great, wide beyond.

But in reality, despite a tendency to anthropomorphize, rivers have had far more impact on us than we have on them. We might navigate them, dam them, clog them with plastic bags and other pollution and paddle in them, but mostly they just go on their way. That is the hope, anyway. For our part, as a species, we have gravitated to rivers wherever we can, clinging to their sides. Almost every major capital around the world has one, the names as famous as the cities themselves. Almost every settlement in Sarawak runs parallel to a river or stream, ideal for fight or flight, work and play, sustenance and celebration. The river runs through it all, bringing the outside world in, on its way downstream.

The Sarawak River is no exception. Of the 35 major rivers gazetted under the Sarawak Rivers Ordinance, the Rajang might be the longest, but Sungai Sarawak is the most defining. It has given its name to the basin, the country, the capital (briefly) and now the state. Unlike most rivers in the state which can trace their name back to some natural feature, the provenance of the name of Sungai Sarawak is unclear: the Malay word for antimony, perhaps, but alternate explanations compete for precedence. But one thing is for certain, the Sarawak River has been through its stages – a passage of time, people, movement and trade – bringing the world into Sarawak and Sarawak out to the world.

The much-mourned markets were easy access from the water, running along the river’s length.

It is hard to know where to begin, perhaps in Kuching, at a mid-life stop on the maturing of the river and of Sarawak itself; perhaps at the Waterfront where the movement of the river is best expressed. Stand on the Kuching Waterfront today and a long line of water linking Sarawak’s people stretches out in each direction. Look upstream, up past the fork of Kiri and Kanan, the traditional stronghold of the Sarawak Malay at Lida Tanah, up past Bau, up past Padawan, to Sadir and Krokong, you will find the Bidayuh (broadly speaking, of course). Look downstream, down past Sejingkat, down past Bako, all the way to Muara Tebas, you will find the modern Malay (again, broadly speaking) and the Iban at Samarahan, who both still paddle upstream (well, under power these days) to ply the perahu tambang. Look around you, and you will see the arrival of a new world. The Chinese shophouses and temples, the Indian spice shops and mosques, the Brooke era buildings are testimony to the numerous people who all came up this body of water and, almost literally, set up shop.

Selling from a boat-shop and transporting goods was a way of trading

Rows of wooden jetties, wharfs and godowns.

Stand on the Kuching Waterfront today and the ribbon of time coils around you, both in what remains and what has disappeared. Rewind a little and the neatly paved tiles of what is now a sedate heritage walk come loose to reveal the muddy flats of what was once the hurried heart of Kuching’s trading centre. Rows of wooden jetties, wharfs and godowns lined either side of its banks and boats thronged the centre of the stream. Kuching’s first petrol station once stood opposite the Tua Pek Kong, sited more in service of the far more abundant river traffic rather than what was then the occasional car. These boats evidenced transport but also trade and it was bustling.

The much-mourned markets were easy to access from the water, running along the river’s length. As John H.S. Ting describes in his ‘History of Architecture in Sarawak Before Malaysia’, these were “designed, procured, implemented and run by the government. A fish market had existed in Kuching since the 1860s, but new buildings were built in 1871 and 1885. A general market was built in 1883, next to the fish market.” They might have been government run, but they were people led. The river was the first pan-Sarawak highway and these markets were its busiest service station. Goods flowed here from the interior – rubber, pepper, cocoa, bird’s nests and rattan came down from the rocky upper reaches and salted fish, palm sugar, coconut and gambier from its open mouth. Everyone crowded round the Rumah Kupon to receive their license to trade, even climbing over each other to get to the front of the queue. These traders in turn had the chance to load their boats with salt, sugar, cooking oil and the uncertain delights of ready-made clothes, while they sampled the strange wonders of roti paun (bread), of all things.

This trade network worked both ways. While the kampung residents came down on occasion, the Chinese traders also went up, establishing outposts along the entire stretch. For those upstream, Kuching was a long way to come from Pangkalan Empat and Pangkalan Pan and an even longer journey back, so Batu Kitang, Siniawan and many small settlements in between became home to Chinese families, many of whom speak better Bidayuh than remote Mandarin, stocking a kedai runcit and serving as a jumping off point for further travels into the interior. Each became a minimarketplace, mimicking the main markets in Kuching where jungle goods were gathered before the long trip back down to the capital.

Lined either side of its banks and boats thronged the centre of the stream.

Of course, many of these outposts have stronger associations with underground resources than the landed plenty. Bau and Siniawan were the source of gold, Tegora near Krokong of mercury, and so the foundations of Sarawak’s modern economy began to emerge on this stretch of river. The product of Chinese labour in the mines, the workers sourced more from overland in Kalimantan than oversea in Singapore, made its way downstream and the final leg of the journey, from Sarawak to the world, was ensured, back on the same Kuching waterfront that oversaw local trade.

The Sarawak Steamship Company was established in 1875 to ‘solve the shipping problem in Sarawak.’ The Rajah wanted an income and export was the proposed source. Its warehouse still stands on the Waterfront but, at one time, its ships – the most famous named Rajamas and Pulau Kijang – plied the waters between Sarawak and Singapore, loaded with exotic treasures, underground and overground, in either direction. Close by were the offices of the Borneo Company, set up in 1856 to “take over and work Mines, Ores, Veins or Seams of all descriptions of Minerals in the Island of Borneo, and to barter or sell the produce of such workings”. One fed the other, taking trade out of the hands of the Chinese network and into the British Empire beyond, through the river mouth at Muara Tebas, of course.

Today, the Sarawak Steamship Company is a tour operator, its old godown now a handicraft centre. The offices of the Borneo Company are now the site of a high-class hotel. The first petrol station is now a highend café and the Waterfront itself is a gentrified promenade from which to take in the sights of the city. The tourist trade now trumps tradable goods and the main port has moved down to Pending and then Senari. The river has gone quiet, more for taxis and evening cruises than barter and exchange. But the human interchange has left its mark, an interconnectedness brokered by the river itself.

Karen Shepherd is the descendant of the second GM of the Borneo Company and also the final one, the facilitators of free trade in a new Sarawak. She has visited every section of the Sarawak River – young, mature and old – from Sadir, for a swim in a waterfall, to Muara Tebas, for a delicious seafood meal.

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A TALE OF TWO LONGHOUSES by Karen Shepherd

TRADITION AND LIFESTYLE: PERMANENCE AND IMPERMANENCE

LONGHOUSE LIFE HAS BEEN A long-term choice of Sarawak’s rural communities. These singular structures, housing anywhere up to several hundred families, have made Sarawak special yet, as anthropologist Peter Metcalf put it, they are not necessitated by any ‘simple feature of ecology or geography.’ They are a choice, one taken in a world of traditional cosmology and shifting cultivation and especially in a world of unparalleled community ties.

But, the traditional longhouse is vanishing along with traditional lifestyles. As cultures shift and cultivation becomes increasingly rooted, the life in the longhouse is diversifying, fragmenting and fracturing. Sometimes replaced by modern materials, sometimes moving into individual residences, the old super-structures of belian and bamboo are either fading into memory or are increasingly unoccupied. Even worse, images of wooden longhouses consumed in flames go up on social media with depressing regularity, the whole state going up in arms over the tragedy of another traditional structure consigned to ash.

But, in reality, longhouses were rarely designed to last. Despite their size and durability, they were always a fluid construction, dividing and mutating with the community before space constraints and agricultural complaints would drive them to migrate. Permanence itself is a new idea, born of new beliefs, new traditions and new lifestyles. Longhouse life, it seems, has always been on the move.

Phyllis anak Nelian, now in her seventies, has experienced a range of these lives, both rural and urban, communal and detached. She said goodbye to longhouse life at the age of twenty as she married into an urban Iban family. The Linangs were landowners in what is now central Kuching and they were a seismic shift away from the life she had been used to. Moving to her In-law’s house on Jalan Mendu in 1963, the year of Malaysia’s formation, she describes Kuching as still a small town and, living on the outskirts, she was initially lonely without the buzz of the longhouse filling her every moment. But it was still the big city and she talks of gas lamps and other modern conveniences that made her sad as her lifestyle was already significantly more comfortable than her family’s at home.

However, her longhouse journey from Stambak Ili to Tabuan Dayak also tells a story about the state of the longhouse in modern Sarawak. Born during the Japanese occupation, her longhouse had already been standing on the Layar river for around three decades. A small community of only 12 doors, rising to 14 in later years, theirs was a breakaway group from Gensurai, upriver from Betong. This area was once the stronghold of the trailblazing Iban Chief of the Saribas basin, Orang Kaya Pemanca Dana Bayang, who commanded an unprecedented 40 longhouses, Phyllis’s ancestor and the father of Aji, founder of nearby Stambak Ulu, also on the Layar, and Buda, famously the first Iban convert to Christianity in this area.

Stambak Ili represented a new phase of life in the Saribas. Their community was established by her grandfather, Saban anak Langgie, who wanted to plant padi and centred his new longhouse near fertile fields and, of course, the new church dedicated to their new faith – St Augustine’s, which stands today. Unlike Gensurai, which at that time still followed the adat lama, Stambak Ili was built to last. Made entirely of belian from top to bottom, Saban put his own strength into construction but borrowed his techniques to create a new look of longhouse. Octagonal rooms and carved kaki atap in the Malay style created a hybrid for an innovative, new community which settled into padi planting and later became the first to plant rubber trees in that area. He even built a chapel as part of the structure.

This is a source of obvious pride for Phyllis, the longstanding connection to the work of her grandfather, unusual in Iban communities in which longhouses would expect to be rebuilt periodically as the community pindah (migrated) for pastures new. With that healthy dose of Iban competitiveness, she wryly pokes fun at nearby Gensurai, once her family’s ancestral home, which has been through four incarnations in the hundred years that Stambak Ili has stood, comparing the weathered belian of her longhouse to the original ‘atap apong’ that they had come from. However, she also tells of strong ties between the two, the lifeblood of longhouse life. She recounts the fivehour journey upriver several times a year to visit one another for funerals, weddings, for harvest and general fun.

But Phyllis was not the last to leave Stambak Ili for city life and now her longhouse stands empty. For many years, it was tended by a lone family member who grew the padi singlehandedly and looked after the place, but even she has now gone. Phyllis’s children and grandchildren are all now urban Kuchingites, born in the city and wedded to its lifestyle. Valentino Ngabong anak Peter, her first grandson, whose mother hails from Stambak Ili and father from Gensurai, still claims a connection to longhouse life, just so long as it doesn’t have to last for too long! He loves the longhouse at Stambak Ili for its history and tradition but farming is not for him. What is a city boy to do day in day out in the rural areas? But he makes a point to get back to Betong for family occasions, so the link remains unbroken.

Meanwhile, Gensurai’s latest lifetime has seen a rebuild in bricks and mortar. Now tiled and with aircon over two storeys, it is wholly modern and their last timber longhouse has been taken down, the wood shared out between the families. Valentino is sanguine about the contrast with Stambak Ili. While city folks like the idea of the traditional longhouse, he says, those who live in them want the conveniences that the city folk enjoy. Besides, he adds, the new construction is safer from fire, once considered the ultimate mali and still a major threat to longhouse communities across the state.

But, the longhouse life within Gensurai remains, still filled with more than thirty families. December 2018 saw an enormous Gawai Antu at Gensurai with the community there welcoming all those all those connected to the longhouse, by proximity or by familial ties, numbering in the thousands, including some city folk who originated in Stambak Ili, now deserted nearby. The traditions remain though the structure changes. As for Stambak Ili, after much debate about whether to rebuild, those who maintain a bilek have opted to keep the original building. After all, it was built to last.

Karen Shepherd was enthralled by the Gawai Antu at Gensurai, its power undiminished by the modern surroundings, though she still secretly longs for the log steps and timber interiors of the longhouses of old. But she doesn’t live in one!

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NEXT TIME YOU CROSS A river by Sampan, or photograph one crossing to/from one of the many Pangkalang Sampan that dot the north and south banks of the river, spare a thought for the master wooden boat builders who go into the forest to select and harvest the trees and hew and assemble the components of these boats, following time-honored, traditional techniques. Will this age-old craft surive the onslaught of factory-made fiberglass Boats, which are lighter, last longer, and cost only marginally more ?

Mat and Saidi are boat builders, born of generations of boat builders before them. In a community where fishing and farming were once the traditional economy, they have supplied the wherewithal in the traditional way entirely from the forest that surrounds them. They roam their land looking for the right materials for their wooden boats, several species for each structure, and then fell, prepare and fix the timber for each one entirely by hand.

The process starts with a survey of the forest area between Bako Park’s Southern boundary and the two kampungs located near Muara Tebas, the mouth of the Sarawak River. The craftsmen survey the forest looking for trees of a suitable size, form, and species – Selangan Batu, Meraka, Lun – which have the desired properties for boat building. These include: light-weight, strong, durable and flexible.

Wooden pegs in perfect precision without nails nor screws.

Timber for boat building is sourced from dense forests south of Bako peninsula.

Traditional wooden boat making is a dying craft, competing with factory made fibreglass boats

Once selected, the trees are felled and hewn into boat components including frame, ribs, planking, oars, bow, transom, etc. These heavy wooden pieces are then manually carried along jungle tracks, for up to several kilometres to kampung boat building sheds located in the coastal areas to the east of Bako Park.

At these simple boat yards, wooden boat components are labouriously and skillfully crafted into perahu tambang and other types of wooden boats that ply rivers providing transport to and from sampan jetties from Muara Tebas and Kampung Gobilt, near the mouth of the Sarawak River, to as far upstream as Batu Kawa and Batu Kitang.

 Traditional wooden sampans and jetties connect remote riverine kampungs to Sarawak’s rivers to towns and roads.

Meleleuca paper bark trees are used for caulking.

RAW MATERIAL SOURCES FOR WOODEN BOATS
The forests that provide the wood raw material for boat building have been managed by local communities under “forest customary use rights” by several generations of kampung folk whose skills have been passed down through successive generations of boat building families. These forests lie in a narrow buffer zone along the south-east corner of Bako National Park and the mouth of the Sarawak River at Muara Tebas.

BARK OF MELELEUCA TREES USED TO MAKE THE WOODEN BOATS WATERPROOF
Besides timber, wooden boat building operations also harvest the soft, paper-like bark of Meleleuca trees that have been widely planted along roadsides in the Muara Tebas area. The bark is mixed with gums and resins (such as damar) to caulk cracks between the boat’s planks, to make them waterproof.

The Meleleuca bark swells when the boat is immersed in water thus preventing water from entering the boat. After harvesting, the bark regrows quickly. Provided care is taken, tree vitality and growth are unaffected by this sustainable tree bark harvesting for use in wooden boat building. The tree bark can continue to be periodically harvested, as long as the tree is not damaged during the bark removal process.

Long Term Viability of Wooden Boat Building
Like many traditional artisanal handicrafts, the long-term viability of wooden boat building is threatened by diminishing raw material sources, coupled with substitution by aluminum and fibreglass boats that are mass-produced in modern, mechanized manufacturing facilities. Although these factory-made boats are currently more expensive that the traditionally made wooden boats, they are also lighter and less susceptible to insect and fungal attack. One can already see the replacement of traditional sampans on the Sarawak River by larger capacity fibreglass boats, capable of carrying more passengers and thus generating more operating revenue and profit than the more traditional wooden sampans which they are replacing.

Jay Blakeney, a retired Canadian forest engineer and avid outdoors-man, has spent three decades enjoying and accessing the state’s rainforest by bike or on foot, either with friends or flying solo. He thanks the people of Kampung Selabat and Kampung Karangan, for their hospitality and for sharing information on their area.

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DUKUN & BOMOH by Joshua Wong-Tendahal

SPIRITS, HEALING AND IDENTITY

‘Let those who believe in spirits speak for themselves.’ (Lewis, 1971: 29)

THE SHAMAN GOES BY MANY names in Sarawak – Manang, Dukun, Bomoh, Sin. Every linguistic group gives them their own title, a reflection of their centrality in these traditional cultures. They speak with spirits, smooth decision-making, settle the conflict and heal the sick.

For those drawing from a JudaeoChristian tradition and, in fact, those who imagine themselves from a modern world of Hollywood movies or rational science and mainstream spirituality, their existence might be shrouded in rumour, mystery, superstition and suspicion. The unfamiliarity and misconception is born out of a societal aversion to the unknown and unconventional. In most socio-cultural milieux which hold science and world religions dear, traditional spiritual beliefs are mysticised or shunned.

But in Sarawak, the boundaries are not so clear-cut. All Sarawakians know of them, most believe in them, many still visit them. They are both revered and reviled, as Sarawak grapples to reconcile a very recent past of animism and alternative spirituality with a rush to conversion and modernity.

Growing up, I had always pictured the bomoh in my elders’ tales with the blood-red teeth and bonepiercings of international adventure films. But, seeking to learn more about these individuals who tap into the resources of the spiritual realm (and to straighten out any personal misconceptions), I set out into a rural Bidayuh community by the SarawakKalimantan border, searching for those from the dukun or bomoh circles who would be willing to speak with me about their origins, practice, and identity.

These are the stories of two dukun with whom I met.

YANG-SANI: Origins and Practice
Sometime in 1980, Yang-Sani, a Catholic woman who had converted to Islam after her marriage to a Muslim man, found herself very ill. Despite seeking treatment for two years from doctors and dukun alike, her symptoms of fatigue, loss of appetite, and bodily pains did not leave her. In 1982, she went to visit her sister. They spent their day in the jungle where they had planned a picnic by the river.

While swimming in a lubok (waterhole), she felt drawn toward two stones upon the riverbank. One was smooth and black with a white layer running through its middle. The other was a rough, red stone which seemed to have a head and a tail. Taking a liking to the stones, she took them home to her sister’s house and placed them by her bed while she slept. That night, the spirit of an elderly Bidayuh man – Pa’wi – came to her and told her that the stones belonged to him. He told her that the black stone would give her the ability to combat muat (demons) while the red one would aid her in detecting and neutralising poisons or cursed foods. In the days that followed her encounter with Pa’wi, she found herself recovering. Yang-Sani then spent the next few years learning the ways of the dukun through her interactions with Pa’wi thus becoming a vessel for his powers of healing.

My host in the field, Lawrence, used to visit Yang-Sani for treatment of kandam pinya’at (spiritual sickness or curses). After multiple visits, his cousins, who would accompany him to the rituals, also fell victim to kandam pinya’at. Upon sharing this with Yang-Sani, they were informed that the individual who had caused Lawrence to be attacked did not wish to see him recover and thus set out to curse those who sought to aid in his recovery. In response to this, Yang-Sani offered to include Lawrence’s cousins in the healing sessions.

Yang-Sani’s cure for them cost them ten ringgit each, in addition to three raw eggs, one per person. During the ritual, the egg would be coated in ritual oils1 and rubbed over the affected area of the patient’s body whilst Yang-Sani chanted and summoned her spirit. She would then ask Pa’wi, her kamang (spirit), to combat the evil spirit attacking the patient and to remove the presence of evil in their being. While similar extractions in shamanic rituals elsewhere have been more a ‘symbolic removal of the “spiritual essence”’ (Harner, 1980: 52), Yang-Sani’s egg rituals seemingly resulted in the production of physical objects. When the egg was then cracked into a bowl, it would reveal the spiritually planted object which was causing the affliction. In most cases this would be a fine needle wrapped in coloured thread (either red, black, or yellow). In other, rarer cases, miniature tiguno (figurines) would be produced by the ritual. Despite leaving no marks on the body or the egg, the needle is said to have left the body and entered the egg during the ritual.

Toward the end of our conversation, Yang-Sani reached out to me and offered to give me a few lessons in carrying out rituals. When I declined, citing personal beliefs, her response drew to my attention to the way in which dukun conceptualised their identities. “It’s ok, I’m Muslim and also a dukun. I can be both”, she said (paraphrased from Malay).

BARNABAS: A Syncretic Identity
‘Masuklah, masuk!’ (‘Come in, come in!’). Barnabas enthusiastically waved at me, inviting me into his home. He and his friend, Mang-Migu, re-entered the house in which the former conducted his healing sessions. I followed suit and entered a room with a woven mat in the middle and an altar to one side. It was dimly illuminated by what little sunlight penetrated the drawn curtains.

In this warm glow, I could see that his altar was extensively decorated with Catholic paraphernalia. Barnabas motioned for me to come closer to where he and Mang-Migu had taken their places on the mat. As we began conversing, he told me that on Sundays he uses a beliung (axe-head) tied perpendicular to a parang (machete) blade in what he jokingly called his ‘axe-ray’ ritual. With the help of an assistant, the contraption is balanced between their right index-fingers and raised and lowered repeatedly while Barnabas asks Jesus and the Holy Spirit questions regarding the patient. An affirmative answer is manifested by the beliung-parang spontaneously turning and falling off their fingers to the floor, while a negative answer is assumed if it remains still.

‘Demo, demo!’ Barnabas called out as he reached under the altar cloth and pulled out the beliung-parang. With Mang-Migu’s assistance, he began a demonstration. They rhythmically lifted and lowered the contraption while Barnabas called upon the Holy Spirit and asked if my presence in the kampung would bring good fortune to the community and to me. Seconds after he completed his question, the axe-head and machete blade spun and clunked to the ground. He turned to me and with a wide smile gave me a thumbs-up, pleased with his demonstration and the answer.

Remarkably, I later found out that the combination of beliung and parang was used by adat tayu mediums and dayung manang (priestesses) to diagnose curses and kandam pinya’at in pre-Christian days. The use of this traditional spiritual device by one who claimed to be a Catholic healer in front of an altar adorned with images of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary perfectly embodied the crossroads between cultural heritage and present religion at which many dukun find themselves.

Including Barnabas and Yang-Sani, I met six dukun and healers and all identified themselves as either practicing Christians or Muslims. None of them saw their work as being at odds with their respective faiths as they believed that their abilities came from God or Allah. Some went on to further distinguish between the cultural aspect of their work and the religious aspect of their faith, stating that neither ought to encroach upon the other. For them, adat and agama are two separate spheres of life.

A famous quote by author H.P Lovecraft states that, “the oldest and strongest kind of fear is the fear of the unknown”. Perhaps this explains the attitudes that many have towards those who practice spiritual healing. The peripheral nature of their unconventional methods gives rise to many misconceptions and assumptions. Having spent time with some practitioners and patients, it would appear that the phenomenon is more complex and real than my preconceptions had me believe.

The study of religion and religious experience is, as Lewis states, ‘sensitive to subjective judgement’ (1971: 29) and the search for objective truths is therefore unlikely to bear desired fruit. However, this was not the intention I set out with. Instead, all I – and I presume those greater minds of the field – seek is that, through attempts to understand the Other and that which is foreign, we make the strange familiar, and the familiar strange. Through this, we may navigate and form our own ideas of what makes us who we are.

Josh Wong-Tendahal is an Anthropology graduate and foodie who believes that the best way to know a culture is to live in it and to taste it.

Harner, M. 1980. The Way of the Shaman. Bantam Books. New York.
Lewis, I.M. 1971. Ecstatic Religion: An Anthropological Study of Spirit Possession and Shamanism. Penguin Books. Middlesex, England. 

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THE VOICE OF MY GRANDFATHER Ribuh Long (his name means “The confluence of a thousand rivers”), still rings clear in my ears: “Rivers flow downriver from their origin upriver; their flow can never be reversed from the rivers’ mouth where they end.” It was a metaphor he used to depict the importance of time spent to connect with one’s relatives. Those times can never be relived. For time, like a river, can never return to its origin, therefore the same water cannot be touched twice.

And yet, another dimension to the metaphor is: in reality rivers do connect people, cultures and ideas. As passageways, rivers allow civilisations to connect across widespread geographical areas. The banks of rivers have bred great milestones of human history. Amazon River basin bellied “an interconnected, advanced series of fortified villages spanning over 1,100 miles that flourished”1 in the pre-Columbian Amazon rainforest; River Nile in Egypt flourished its banks for one of the world’s oldest civilisations; the Tigris- Euphrates river system is renowned as a cradle to ancient Mesopotamian civilisations. Similarly, the Yangtze River and Yellow River in China have been crucial to the emergence and development of Chinese civilizations.

…its rivers have been passageways of history, traditions and knowledge that connect its people to meet, negotiate and exchange ideas and objects.

No matter the time and location, river basins are great places to live. Lewis Mumford, the philosopher of technology once claimed, “All the great historic cultures have thriven through the movement of men and institutions and inventions and goods along the natural highway of a great river.”

The situation is no different on Borneo, the world’s third largest island. Borneo appears hard to reach physically and difficult to understand culturally. Its dense forests, mangrove-fringed shores, rugged mountains, deep valleys, crossing and recrossing of ranges and streams make ventures within almost impossible especially for a stranger.

Yes it is possible that Borneo’s rugged features prevented a unified civilisation on the island, but its rivers have been passageways of history, traditions and knowledge that connect its people to meet, negotiate and exchange ideas and objects. Its major rivers like Kinabatangan (560 km), Kapuas (1,143 km), Mahakam (980 km), Baram (400 km), Barito (890 km), Martapura (600 km), Rejang (563 km) and their myriad of tributaries and confluences give Borneo a picture of consistency.

Writing about her experiences of the Five of the best Borneo river trips, Tamara Thiessen2 gushes, “the best way of experiencing the rainforests of Borneo is to jump on a boat,” for “the lush rainforests of Borneo hide a startling array of flora and fauna, as well as tribes who live by the islands’ waterways.”

With an area of 743,330 square kilometres Borneo is commonly divided into 3 distinctive physical geographic zones: upland, the riverine, coastal. The upland areas are made of rugged mountains towering over 1,000 metres. Like a central spine, it is an important watershed for the island, with most Borneo rivers originate from this mountainous region.

The second zone is dominated by ridges and furrows. The furrows that lie between the hills and mountains become rugged watercourses. These serve as important channels for the river systems on the island.

The third zone made up of areas less than 600 feet above sea level hosts the estuaries of great rivers flowing from the first and second zones. Mostly flat, these estuaries composed of sediments deposited by the rivers are conducive for settlement and farming. Besides they mass trading opportunities between the interior and coast, creating fertile ground for political power fortification. Major cities of Borneo like Kota Kinabalu, Bandar Seri Begawan, Kuching, Pontianak, Banjaramasin, Samarinda, Miri, Bintulu are located in the coastal zone.

As environment for human habitation and adaptation, each zone nurtures specific cultural landscape with defining values and beliefs. Some local communities use the analogy of tree as a metaphorical map in order to make sense of the diversity of cultural habitat, locations and people between these zones.

Those living in the coastal areas make the base of the tree. These are mainly Malays and Chinese. The middle zone comprises of those living along the banks of the main rivers who make up the tree trunk. These are the Iban and Bidayuh. They traditionally inhabit much of the lower part of major rivers. The Orang Ulu especially the Kayan and Kenyah who traditionally inhabit the upper parts of these rivers along the river branches and tributaries form the tree branches. Meanwhile, those living in the headwaters of the rivers make up the tree’s flowers and fruits. These are upriver communities like the Penan, Punan Bah, Kayan, Kenyah, Lun Bawang, Tagal, Potok, Berau, Milau, Saban, Kelabit and the Kerayan people.

It is a picture of symbiosis. The rivers provide life-giving water to the people. Longhouses on stilts typically built along the banks of streams and rivers. Nearby streams play central roles in the everyday life of the people. Children play and swim in the rivers. From the same rivers, adults draw water, wash clothes, bath and fish. All these add life and colours to already vibrant rivers and streams.

Rivers are means to move people and their products, as waterways for the spread of techniques and technologies, and for the mobility of objects of desire such as beads, jars, pots, and gongs between places and people. For upland communities who were once cutoff, who produced their own salt, planted their own rice, hunted and roamed the jungle for food, rivers made possible the adoption and adaptation of nonlocally produced ideas and objects to take place. These did not happen through direct contacts with the coast, but through a series of village-to-village trading, barter exchanges carried out along the river, perhaps starting from an entrepôt at the coast.

Traditionally, people moved on the rivers because of cultural practices of distant travel, which contributed to a person’s social status. Known as merantau amongst the Malay, bejalai amongst the Iban and mengerang mado by the Kelabit and Lun Bawang, historically the practice involved a long journey that a man and woman might undertake. The adventure would carry him/her far from home, allowing him/her to acquire new skills and knowledge and grow in strength and character. For generations, traveling far is one of the most important traditions used by the diverse communities to create connections with the rest of the world. Some of those journeys have been transposed into legends, epic tales and mythical stories.

“Jump on a boat,” said Tamara. Prior to the existence of roads, a trip from the coast required river journeys, besides weeks of trekking across rugged mountains. For the river journeys, different types of hand-carved vessels of long-boats and dug-out canoes were used to negotiate the waterways. Nowadays there are modern designed boats such as express boats, electric boats, speedboats and engine-run long boats. These reflect waterways still connect landscapes and communities in different parts of Borneo.

Simply put, rivers are central to human existence. Today, rivers are used to regularise sanitation and to produce hydroelectric power. In certain regions, rivers are places to focus spiritual energies on, and are called majestic and mighty. In India, rivers are revered and are wrapped in myths, epic tales and sacred texts. In Australia, New Zealand and India, rivers, like human life, have been granted legal rights. In Sarawak, features of rivers are still adopted as names for people and places. The settlements of riverine communities in the tropical rain forests are invariably located between two rivers, at long or kuala in Malay – confluences or estuaries – like Long Banga, Long Tungan, Long Semadoh and Kuala Baram.

Poline Bala obtained a B.A in Southeast Asian Studies from the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, University of Malaya and an M.A in Asian Studies from Cornell University, US. In May 2008 she graduated with a PhD in Social Anthropology from University of Cambridge, UK. She is now an Associate Professor at the Faculty of Social Sciences and Humanities, University Malaysia Sarawak (UNIMAS).

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LIKE THE ICONIC STONES clustered on the grassy plains of far-away England, Karangan’s huge megalithicrocks are unique in the Sarawak landscape. These bare rock pinnacles protrude 20 meters above a 200 meter high, forested ridge between Bako National Park and mouth of the Sarawak River at Muara Tebas.

Like the rocks at Stonehenge, the origins of the Karangan Rocks are subject to much speculation. Recently a number of jungle trekking groups guided by a local pepper farmer, familiar with the area, explored the slopes and multiple summits of Karangan, looking for clues to how the rocks were formed. They discovered underground passage-ways through the rocks and reached some of the 200 meter high rock summits where their efforts were rewarded by panoramic views of the surrounding mountains, rivers, valleys and islands.

Hans Hazebroek, a Kuching-based geologist and Malaysian Nature Society member, explained that sediments accumulated on ancient sea bottom formed thick sandstone. These were later fractured and thrust up to the surface by tectonic and volcanic forces. These fractured sandstone formations make up the mountain ridges of Bako National Park. Uplifting forces cracked the rock and subsequent erosion over geological time, widened the cracks, forming Karangan’s Pinnacles that we see today.

It is hoped that someday soon these unique Karangan rock formations will be annexed to Bako National Park where they will enjoy the protection and conservation status they deserve.

Jay Blakeney, a Retired Canadian Forest Engineer and avid outdoorsman, describes the historic isolation of Borneo’s far western corner from the rest of Sarawak, and the scenic attractions that await travellers there.

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Wild Ginseng was devoured largely by the imperials of China thousands of years ago. The emperor Qin Shi Huang from the Qin Dynasty even sent his liege hunting for these super tonic plants high up the mountains in Korea as he sought the elixir of life in this medicinal root, believed to promote health, vitality and longevity. The high demand makes it endangered now. Wild ginseng flourished abundantly in Hamyang during the Three Kingdoms era in Korea. Until the early 1990s, many Koreans worked as ‘simmani’. They were experts in digging up ginseng. Today, Hamyang is renowned for its ‘Hamyang Wild Ginseng Festival’, held in Sangnim Forest, Korea’s natural monument. This prized herb becomes most nutritious when it produces a red fruit. Traditionally, the Koreans boil the wild ginseng and chicken together to make nourishing soup as well as soak it in wine as medicine. Nowadays, you can experience its novelty in the wild ginseng flower tea.

Arrowroot originally came from the Arawak, the people who lived in the Caribbean Islands. You can enjoy young arrowroot raw. Its powder form, however is derived from Marantaceae’s rhizomes. As it is gluten-free, it is a healthier alternative to corn starch making it a superb thickening agent in sauces and stews. High in several B vitamins and minerals, it also aids digestion. Its primeval uses include healing wounds from scorpion bites and poisoned arrows.

Wild Water Taro thrives in wetlands. Commonly referred to as wild yam in Sarawak, it is also grown near ponds in the urban areas. The shoots and stems make great dishes. Readily available in the regular markets with its stems already cut, peel the skin carefully before throwing it into the wok. Spongy when chewed, it is rather tasteless so local chefs usually get innovative with it. Add in turmeric leaf, chili, fermented tofu and taro or yam or simply with belachan and chilli into your cooking. Non belachan fans could jive with miso instead for a different twist. Be careful though, the wrong species in your mouth could have you rushing to the pharmacy!

Green Cardamom: Originated from India, this herb from the ginger family spice up any dishes with an intense, minty flavour. Loaded with antioxidants, cancer fighting, anti-inflammatory and anti-bacterial compounds, these are just a few of its impressive medicinal qualities. It is generally safe for most people but the supplements form are cautioned not to be given to children and women who are pregnant and nursing.

Kecalak: Fondly named kecalak by the Ibans, Sabahans call it tuhau. The young sheaves of the shoots and roots can be eaten. Often cooked in ‘ayam masak kicap’, you can also mix it with chili, lime, salt and vinegar for an appetizing jeruk. This is only for the adventurous as it requires an acquired taste with the plant smelling like the insect pesisang.

Black Curcuma: The scientists label it as curcuma aeruginosa while the Indonesians refer to it as temu ireng. A perennial plant with its gorgeous magenta coloured flower, its beauty goes beyond its physique. Exuding healing powers and flavonoids, it alleviates cholesterol levels and treats malaria, scurvy and gonorrhoea. Its dark insides can be pounded and mixed with coconut oil into a paste to be used as a skinsoftening mask.

A global superfood, ginger is a common household commodity in China, India, South East Asia, Jamaica and South Africa. Packed with antioxidants and antiinflammatory goodness, the rhizomes and roots are processed into powder and oil as well as eaten fresh and dried.

Thai Black Ginger: This ginger with its dark flesh, is used to treat metabolic sicknesses and improved one’s vitality especially in Thailand. It is highly advertised as an aphrodisiac and acts as a glucose support agent.

Crepe Ginger: This wild ginger, with its spiral leaves and frilly white petals, topped with its lingering strong and sweet smell gives your garden an exotic feel. Aromatic, it is a favourite element in incense and perfumes. An extraction of the rhizomes could lower blood sugar levels. It is interesting to note that the rural people of Assam in India utilizes it for fertility control.

Poko Senggang: Belonging to the ginger family living in the peat swam forests of Sarawak, this plant with its flowers sprout out of the earth is rarely documented (unlike the bunga kantan). The fruit is eaten when it is ripe, leaving a sweet and slightly sour tang in your mouth. Its stems are woven into mats, known as tikar senggang.

White Turmeric: An ancient spice, zedoary or the white turmeric is a rarity. Tasting almost like ginger, its flesh is light and it gives you a bitter aftertaste. Its medicinal benefits are bountiful, ranging from treating female ailments, stomach troubles, snake bites and chronic pain to purifying blood. The Indians use the flowers for festive rituals, the rhizomes for perfumes and they savour the roots fresh, pickled or cooked.

Bentong Ginger: Nicknamed the King of ginger, it is found mainly in Bukit Tinggi, Bentong, Malaysia. Likened to a poor man’s ginseng, it is

actually more costly, more nutritious and spicier than the common ginger. Because there are no filaments around it, it is twice as delicious in adding zest to dishes like fried rice, chicken and pork ribs.

Let’s dig deep into our roots. Hunt them. Plant them. Eat them. Get creative and they might just grow on you.

A poet and visual artist, Angelina Bong has performed and read in South Korea, Malaysia, South Africa, Botswana, UK, Australia, India and Egypt with some poems translated into Korean, French, Malayalam, Japanese, Arabic and Malay. She is published online and in print including several poetry festival anthologies.

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The Nativity scene must have attracted the attention of Tom Harrisson who contacted me to see him at the Sarawak Museum. I met him in his office which was pretty dark, with books stacked to the ceiling, stuffed birds and small animals and native artefacts on tables, benches and floor.

Tom needed an artist to paint a series of backdrops for the Museum’s showcases. The cases had fauna exhibits mounted on branches, with glass encasing the remaining three sides. My job was the paint a specific scene for each exhibit. It was a fantastic job opportunity that I could not miss or refuse so I, the only student throughout Sarawak to obtain Distinction One for art in my Senior Cambridge Examination in 1958, took up the challenge.

I got to work. A small section near the main museum staircase was cordoned off as my studio. Tom would check in every morning, giving instructions on what to add into the current scene to finish it off. He seemed generally pleased.

One morning, two gentlemen visited me and we had a chat while I worked. To my surprise, this resulted in an article about my paintings the Singapore Nanyang Siang Pau newspaper. What a surprise! Unfortunately, it was written in Chinese and I could not read it, and I did not try to find out what the fuss was all about.

Once the showcases were done, Tom had a bigger job for me – the Painted Cave of Niah. The cave was large and my task was to copy the cave paintings down. Using cellophane sheets that were about one meter square, I divided them into grids of six inches square and propped it against the paintings on the wall with slivers of bamboo.

Similar grids were also drawn on sheets of masonite before I commenced copying down the walls according to scale. It was quite tricky; I had to lie down or crouch to draw, and drag the panels along as I progressed.

Life in the cave was mundane after dark apart from some natter after dinner, which was usually tinned food with rice, some ikan bilis, salted fish and the occasional cave bat. Bats were caught by blasting a few buck shots into a dark part of the cave ceiling and waiting for a few minutes for the bats to fall. They were collected in a large aluminium pot and boiled, guts and all. When cooked, we divided them among us, peeled of the skins and entrails, and consumed them. I do not remember if I enjoyed the bat morsel.

Tom did not always stay with them in the cave. If he was, there won’t be bats for dinner and the generator would have been switched off by 9pm. One night when he did stay, there was a great commotion in the wee hours. Tom’s voice bellowed out across the stillness of the cave: “Could someone choke that snorer to death?”

After a bit of scramble to establish who the condemned man was, I was told to turn over and not sleep on my back.

Once the Painted Cave was duly painted, I returned to the Museum, doing odd jobs, technical illustrations of excavated artefacts for Tom’s reports, and assisting in making a bird nest collecting model under the main Museum staircase with the Museum head taxidermist. I also did quick sketches of native headsmen, who turned up at the Museum in full costume when meeting with Tom.

Another interesting assignment Tom gave me was to spend a weekend at Talang Talang Island to witness and draw the turtle egg fight festival. Tom also asked me to design and produce a turtle flag which he would often proudly fly whenever he travelled on his speed boat.

After about two years of museum work, Tom called me up out of the blue and said that he was going send me to an American university in the Philippines to study architecture. I was completely flabbergasted by his offer. In my wildest dream, I never thought of ever being offered a scholarship anywhere.

In February 1961, I ended up going to Melbourne, Australia, under the Colombo Plan Scholarship to study Building, after Tom decided that he didn’t like the American university system. When I was in Australia, he introduced me to his close network of contacts to look after me.

Later on, I also found out Tom told a friend that I was like a son to him. He did have a son around my age who was in and out of a mental institution in England.

Tom was loud, vocal, and ran the Museum like a sergeant major, accepting no nonsense from anybody and sparing nobody an occasional verbal lashing. At the same time, I noticed that Tom never held long term grudges or animosities towards his subordinates.

And while I was mostly unscathed in his time at the Museum, I clearly remembered the one occasion I could not catch Tom personally so I left a note on his desk. Not long after, I got called up by Tom and chastised in front of the staff: “Are you deaf or dumb? If you want something from me, speak to me directly.”

I was devastated upon learning that Tom, together with his wife (Belgian sculptress Baroness Madeleine Christine Forani), perished in a road accident in Thailand in 1976.

With over 30 years of experience in building-related industries, Paul Kuek continued doing artwork, participating in selected group exhibitions and collecting some awards and commissions along the way. He graduated from RMIT University (Melbourne) several times over in fields that honoured both his artistic passion and the museum curator who sent him to Australia.

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Spice shops in front of the Indian Mosque
This stretch of spice shops represent the early Muslim Indian settlement and merchants who had settled here and saw their textile and spice trade flourished. Built-in a distinctive Moorish architecture that is still unique in the context of architectural history in Kuching, these spice shops were perfect complement to the waterfront fish, poultry & vegetable markets that were once lined parallel to them, as a way to bring food to life.

Islamic Heritage Museum
The Islamic Heritage Museum was initially built as a school, known as the James Brooke Malay College. Later known as Madrasah Melayu Sarawak in 1930, the building was specially used as a college to train more teachers in higher Malay studies. There were mostly mission schools at that time were doing excellent work on English while there was a lack of qualified Malay teachers. One of the sketchers recalled coming here for a teacher’s meeting when it was the Education Department before it was the Islamic Heritage Museum today.

Peggy Wong is one of the founders of Urban Sketchers Kuching. Although she is a practicing architect who works with precise and methodological linework, she wants to give more heart and soul to her lines through her sketches. She now serves on the international USk Executive Board as Events Director. The fellowship of USk Kuching, and the mission to record stories and scenes of Kuching, is one that is still dear to her heart. https://www.instagram.com/peggyzoewong/

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