Each longhouse is provided with a phone from the government so that the head-man can be reached in case of emergency, or if there is a requirement to waste his time with paperwork and bureaucracy. The numbers we had for our long-house were now out of service, and any efforts made to get into contact with them had failed. So the decision was made to make a 6 hour trip to the Malaysian boarder, in order to meet someone who has a relative who lives in the longhouse and hopefully knows what is going on. Luckily it turns out that the numbers had changed and that everything was still good to go.
The following day we all set off on a journey which was to take us over two days to reach our final destination. After crossing the boarder with the help of a car from a friend of Stuarts, we spent the night at a hostel, before spending the whole of the next day on a bus, and finally riding in the back of a 4x4 pickup truck, with 1.5 gallons of formic acid between our legs. That evening we finally arrived, rather exhausted, to be greeted by the Iban headman.
Last year, when Stuart had visited the long-house, it consisted of about 300 people. When we arrived, it turns out that the long house was no longer – and had actually split into two. After enquiring why the answer of “Tsunami” was given; rather unusual given that we were 200km inland and there was nothing about it on the news! Something was amiss. But either way, there were now two, slightly smaller longhouses.
We decided to visit the longhouse of the ex-British tracker, a man called Anvil, who had worked with the British military during the two wars of the late 1950’s and early 1960’s called the “Emergency” and “Confrontation” – if only to ensure that the insurance was obtained, which stated that they would only pay out if no wars occurred! Now in his late 70’s, Anvil had been given a medal by the Malaysian government to go with the British medal he received at the time. We also had badges, a full officer’s report and pictures of the people he served with at the time, both then and now.
The Iban are an ex headhunting tribe, selected by the British military for their honour and ferocity in battle. Although I say “Ex” I really mean only just ex, as the last head-hunting happened back in 2002. At that time another tribe was placed in Iban land and started taunting their new neighbours calling them a wuss. Bad idea.
During the wars, the Iban are known for sneaking into the enemy camps, slicing the heads off half, or more, of the enemy before sneaking back out again. As you can imagine, waking up in the morning with over half of your mates head’s missing is a rather worrying thing, especially because you didn’t hear anything. This had a significant psychological effect on the young soldiers sent to fight against the British and Iban. Let’s just say that I was minding my P’s and Q’s, and paid significant attention to the cultural briefing provided by Stuart. Saying this, the Iban were some of the most welcoming and warm people I’ve seen for quite a while!
As our arrival was shortly before darkness, we had only time to meet the heads of one of the small long-houses, discuss our purpose and intended length of stay, before being offered Tuak and Durian. Tuak is a rice-wine which is fermented by the Iban from the rice grown in the Iban fields. As it is home-made the strength varies greatly, as does the quality, but one thing stays common; you have to down the first glass you are given, no questions asked. Luckily I’m not too shabby with drink, and so the Tuak was quite palatable. Durian on the other hand was a different story.
Smelling of old socks mixed with cheese, the fruit durian is often banned in many public places in more civilised areas of Asia. Although I didn’t really like the smell, I wasn’t put off it, and so tucked in quite gladly. The taste was quite nice, similar to that of a pear crossed with a slimy star-fruit. But there was something extra, a little fizz on the tongue, something I didn’t like… After about a minute it became apparent what that taste was, I was having an allergic reaction to it, and it was rather strong.
So, here I was, in the middle of the jungle, at least 3 hours drive by 4x4 away from the nearest village, having an allergic reaction of unknown potency to a fruit I’d never tried before, within 10 minutes of meeting a tribe of head-hunters. Things could be better.
After quietly informing the other guys, I gobbled down three anti-histamines and proceeded to go very quiet and try to relax in the corner. With my airway slowly closing up and a bad itch spreading over my body, I hoped it would end soon.
Luckily after only an eternity filling 45 minutes, the symptoms subsided, leaving me with an asthmatic sounding breathing and a swollen tongue which would slowly fade over the next few hours. That’s drama one over, fingers crossed we wouldn’t be having any more!
The next day was filled with a trip to a “Local” field, about 2 hour’s walk away. On route we were fed almost every fruit in the jungle, felled a different palm to be taught about taking the pith for use as tinder for fires, the leaves for weaving, the heart for eating and many other uses besides.
We saw that the Iban we were with were the real deal. Nothing had been put on for tourists (especially as we were the only whites they had contact with, ever) and these people really did think of the jungle as their supermarket. Even small children, who were depressingly dressed in shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops, wondered through the jungle picking up food like no tomorrow. One child, who must have been no older than 8 years, walked right into the river with a needle made from a local palm, rummaged around for about 5 minutes whilst we were gathering tinder, only to emerge with 5 small fishes attached to the needle. Amazing.
Whilst we were slipping all over the place with our big boots and jungle gear, the Iban were dancing amongst the rocks with either flip-flops or bare feet. It’s also true that mosquitoes must like the exotic flesh. I can just imagine the conversation now
“Fancy another Iban tonight dear?”
“No thanks, I hear there’s a good English wondering through today. Never had that before and my friend says it’s like Iban but softer and sweeter – sound good?”
“Lovely, I’ll get the friends round and we can all eat some English.”
English, Scottish and Welsh were certainly high on the mosquito menu, as usual.
Once arriving at our destination, we marvelled at a home-made shotgun, made from some pipes the loggers had left behind and bits of wood. Then food was thrust in our face in the form of a creature which was half rat, half porcupine. We all chipped into removing the spines, before it was roasted over and open fire, and the traditional fare of née bong, sticky rice and assorted jungle things fed to us all.
From there we tromped back through the jungle, which had large swathes removed by recent logging activity of the logging companies who had moved into the local area with the approval of the government, for an evening of celebration and merriment. For we were being told that tonight there would be a traditional Iban festival in our honour given the purpose of our visit…
In preparation for the festival a pig was captured and we all donned suitable headwear – a hat which had feathers placed in various holes, each of which containing symbolic meaning. For example the Hornbill, whose feather was in the centre, was the most important element of the headdress, which often was used to symbolise the beginning of something important (often in Iban culture this was a battle!)
After being given our head-dresses, we were led out of the longhouse and told to march in a specific order to the front door. Here we met the pig, who after being jammed into a bag, carried 400metres squirming, squealing and being dropped multiple times, was already having a bad day. Stuart was then given a spear and told to stab the pig in the throat. Given that the pig was still in a bag, with only a snout protruding from one corner, this was not an easy task, and I suspect he hit it closer to the shoulder on the initial strike. After some jiggling around the squeals began to turn into gargled sounds and key parts of the anatomy were breached.
With the pig still twitching, we hopped over it and began to tour the long-house, shaking the hand of everyone. Once the tour was complete we sat in a line and were jabbered at by an older man who was holding two chickens, but still had a cigarette in his mouth. It seems that the ceremony was important, but it wasn’t going to interrupt his usual smoking session!
The chickens obviously knew what was coming, so one pecked his fag and took a deep drag before spluttering it onto the floor. Amusing as this was, we all tried to keep a straight face, it’s important stuff, even if you do look like a wannabe peacock.
Now it was time to create the meals for the spirits, who must eat before we can continue our greetings. About 15 items were carefully split into piles on a plate – my lucky number was 5, so that meant five piles of everything. Some people only had two piles; other people were really lucky and had a tiresome 9 piles to make. Due to the required repetition, this took about 30 minutes to complete.
Unfortunately, Scott by this time was feeling VERY unwell, probably due to a bad case of dehydration from the earlier walk, but with the real reason remaining a mystery until this day, poor Scott was desperately trying to keep down any food he had eaten. I’m not sure what the Iban would have done if he had chundered over the meals of the spirits who protect the long-house, but I suspect they wouldn’t have been overly happy.
Chunder still well and truly in his belly, Scott managed to make it through the ceremony. Now was the time for us to present the medals, make the speeches and for everyone to eat and then make merry! Don't ask me where the headman got his suit from, that's just one of those things which shocks you when you go on your travels - how civilised everyone actually is, despite their location!
Following the medals and speeches, it was traditional for us to dance. First the head-man danced, so that we can see how it’s done. The dance was very slow, with a rhythmical beat you had to keep to. The main impression was to tell a story, often of a battle. One had to start off with an impression of a horn-bill (told you that bird was important!) before moving onto your story, which mostly looked like a slow swooping, combined with pecking like a chicken.
Both Stuart and I gave this a go, with Patrick feeling tired from the walk, and Scott zonked out on a bed the far side of the long-house feeling very ill. Stuart’s was very similar, ending in the traditional props of a parang and shield, but I decided to spice mine up with the use of two sticks and a “heaven six” stick movement from my martial art’s class as an ending. The idea was for free laughs from the impression of a horn-bill and fascination from the crazy white-man’s stick twirling. It seemed to be well received.
[No videos of me dancing - sorry!]
After our initial round and the dances of some of the other members of the long-house, I decided it was time to give it another go. It’s time to have some fun and play charades! I got up for the dance and tried to act out hunting a pig, including searching for it, tracking it down, fighting it, dragging it back, cooking it over the fire, and finally eating and going to sleep.
With this fresh in his mind, Stuart added a similar story-dance, but his ended in running away from the prey. Both seemed well received and hopefully provided amusement to our hosts, mostly at our expense!
The next two days were filled with observing weaving, eating the same meals over and over again and assisting around the camp. On one day I helped build a chicken hutch.
During the construction of the hutch, it became necessary to move it into the final position. At the time the head-man (remember that he is aged about 70-80 years) and one of the young men were lifting the hutch, which wasn’t light in its construction. I quickly offered my help in place of the head-man, which he was happy to oblige. After seeing him easily handle the hutch, I was rather surprised to find it very heavy, so with him not rushing on the positioning instructions I strained, desperately trying to ensure that I didn’t let him realise that he’s probably twice my strength! These people are amazing – although far smaller than an average western man, they should start strength competitions – they would kick our ass!
With our visit drawing to a close, it was time to head back to Brunei, of course with a 5 hour wait in the middle of nowhere to try and find a bus…
As we had all traded pretty much everything we owned, including knives, flint-steels, hats, gloves and back-packs (for some of the guys at least) there was only one hat left. We were then left with a wonderful choice. Sit under the shade, and get eaten by mozzies, or stand out in the sun, with the one remaining hat, and roast alive. I prefered the sun option and as the hat was mine, spent most of the time lookng like Stuart in this picture, holding a sign with the name of the city we needed to get to!
Until next time – have a great Christmas and a Happy New Year!
1 comment:
hi hadyn. wow, nice trip! happy 2009!
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