Holy Men Holy Women 5

MARCH 3 — How would I describe my time with the Bidayuhs of Sarawak? The trip inspired a gamut of emotions: excitement, disappointment, curiosity dampened by a sense of failure, and finally, enlightenment. Writing that very sentence is worrisome, as it reeks of new-age sentiment. But will I go back again to visit Babai and his wife?

Yes.

My trip to Kampung Opar, about 45 minutes’ away from Kuching, was a brief encounter with Bidayuh culture and faith. I am very sure that my presence had left a deep impression on my host family. I arrived in a most spectacular fashion: I had been suffering from a bad case of food poisoning and upon greeting the family, I asked, “Jamban kat mana?” My adventures were noticed by Babai’s grand-daughter who loudly said to all and sundry, “Budak Semenanjung tu banyak berak kan?”

Babai meant “elder father” and I was to call my host that throughout my stay with he and his wife. He was a priest who conducted Bidayuh rituals during Gawai. My guide Dr P, who had arranged for my stay, was a former “man of science and medicine” until one day, he turned his back on all he knew to heal the Bidayuh way. Babai was bemused by my presence, which Dr P then translated, “Babai is wondering how he can help, as there are words in his language that doesn’t exist in Malay or English.” There were no proper Bidayuh words for thank you, goodbye and sorry, for instance.

Babai and his wife retired to their room while Dr P took me on a tour of the village. Kampung Opar was chosen for my research because all the priests and priestesses needed for the various Gawai festivals lived there. There were other Bidayuh villages, but not all the priests lived there, hence Kampung Opar was the most convenient for a tourist like me.

The tourist that I was, all I could appreciate of the village was that its infrastructure was modern. There were no long-houses, and I had been hoping for that. I had romantic notions of spending nights in one, with pigs and boars rooting below the house, and partaking in communal living. But BN (Barisan Nasional) had come to town, and afforded the Bidayuh a better life. There was water and electricity. Homes were simply decorated. Sanitary hygiene was subjective, judging from the toilets I visited during my stay. But as Babai told me later in the night, BN had given them all they needed, and the Bidayuhs were a farming community, surviving on what they planted. What else was there to ask for? An epiphany: our ideas of poverty may not be other’s.

We visited a few homes and a small tuckshop populated by young Bidayuh men, tattooed and wiry. The villagers looked at me with some curiosity — wearing braces did somewhat make one a celebrity.

Dr P took me to a healer’s home. I noticed that the few homes we visited the ceilings were low, and the air was still. If anything moved, it was at its own time.

A small baby girl lay on the floor, playing with her pillow while a middle-aged woman smiled at us before busying herself with household work. A stout man, dark-skinned, greeted us. The men chat. I looked around and observed that I had not seen any altars, shrines, anything devotional

Dr P turned to me.

“We would like to know what it is you are looking for.”

I explained again. I wanted to observe their rituals and faith up close. Immerse myself in their lives.

The men looked at each other.

Pakcik D said: “We don’t have what you are looking for. We don’t have shrines.”

I stared at him.

Dr P explained. The Bidayuhs believe in the elements, and yes a god named “Ayang”. Ayang was equal to Mohammed or Jesus. They believed in good and evil, God and the devil. There was one God, but there were many representatives. “Guardian angels. We do not play with the dark side, but if necessary, we will talk to the spirits.” Did I know that there was such as a thing as a “black” Quran?

“This is what the Malays call ajaran songsang, using a holy book for evil.”

I was quiet, trying to make sense of the information. I offered that I knew nothing of the black arts and verses. I only knew of the three Quls — Surah AlIkhlas, Al-Falaq, An-nas and Ayat Qursy — which were recited for protection.

“A healer would need to know how people misuse their holy texts to harm others,” he said.

Pakcik D piped up. “I only do good magic. And I don’t charge. Real healers never place a price for their services. If you want that kind of magic, you can go across the river, nearby a village. It’s crazy there, they charge RM1,000 for healing! But it’s those arts they practise.”

“You don’t fool around with jins and that world. They’ll do what you want, but they always want something back. Usually you.”

The men then told me that the Bidayuhs prayed only for a reason. Gawai, a celebration of gods, was performed for specific occasions. One was the rice harvest, and when disaster struck a village, a special Gawai would be performed too.

“Whatever ritual we do, it is for the whole village.”

“So you don’t pray... every day or perform... rituals at home?” I asked.

“No. When Gawai is not celebrated, we go on with our lives. Sometimes I perform healings for ill people, but I am not a bomoh. I do not have lines of people waiting to see me. Sometimes I do not get a patient for weeks, or a month,” Pakcik D said.

That night in Babai’s house, we waited for the chairman of the village to come. But he didn’t. I imagined him in a headdress and a loincloth. The television blared out an adventure cartoon of a family visiting an ancient site. A purple “ghost” looking remarkably like Cleopatra was spewing spells. I thought to myself, was healing energy? And that these jinns or hantus were manifestations of toxic energy?

A brief storm descended on the village later that night. The walls of the house shook, and the house swayed. I clung on to my mattress, in fear that the house would fall over. In that short instant, I thought of how generous my hosts were. They had found an unused mattress for me to sleep on, and had gone out of their way to cook halal chicken.

Still. Where were my healers, holy men?

Next: Part two of the Bidayuh experience.

* The views expressed here are the personal opinion of the columnist.