Holy Men, Holy Women 7

MARCH 30 — The Chairman and his wife finally visited. When we were introduced, I was bemused, to say the least. This was the Chairman — a lean, quiet man?

His wife, whom I called Kak, was talkative. She had been a teacher before, and now she organised meetings with Amanah Saham Wawasan and her people.

Kak had no front teeth and smiled non-stop. She was also tiny. Imagine her as a small wound-up, wizened doll dressed in a plaid shirt and blue pants.

Kak was going to be the translator, and we were going to the Rumah Baruk where another Gawai was celebrated.

“When a great tragedy befalls the village or there is an illness which kills the community, everyone gathers at the Rumah Baruk. Here, we pray to our ancestors and Ayang for salvation,” Kak told me.

Dancing skulls. — All pictures by Dina ZamanIf I could describe the light blue sky above us in a romantic manner, I would. I am unable to, but I spent my days in Kampung Opar staring a lot at the sky, because I was beginning to wonder whether I was in for a proper Bidayuh experience.

The walks to one house and tuck shop and back felt like a Reliance travel tour to an appointed tourist destination. But I was resigned to the fact that I was there and I had to make the best of my stay then.

It was odd to have a trail of old men following Babai, Kak and me to the Rumah Baruk. These were the elders, and many were... toothless.

Kak told me that they were the “ahli komiti” who helped with the priests and priestesses during Gawai.

Babai and I were talking about Barisan Nasional. “Di sini... banyak parti. Bee En. SNAP…  saya orang Bee En. Saya suka kerana kalau kita sokong pembangkang, itu bermakna kita tidak dapat pertolongan kerajaan. Kerajaan kita bagus, apabila orang kita mau api, air, dapat! Kalau kita sokong pembangkang... dua, tiga tahun dapat air!”

(“There are many political parties in Sarawak. BN. SNAP. But I like BN. If we support the opposition we will not get the help of the government. Our government is good. Whatever we want, we get. If we support the opposition... it’ll take us two, three years to get water!”)

I nodded. What he said was his truth. And that was the reality they lived in. Their basic necessities have been met. “Saya tidak ada apa-apa nak minta kerajaan Bee En. Semua dah ada.” (“I have nothing to ask for. I have it all.”)

We entered the Rumah Baruk. It was musty and had not been used for over a decade as no great calamity had befallen on the villagers. Brown, with an attap roof, the building was utilised for prayers and Gawai activities when needed.

Odd it may sound, but the interiors of the structure reminded me of a Koh Samui spa I had visited many years ago.

Offerings to the ancestors.A row on antiquated skulls dangled from the beams above us, which supported the roof. Right at the bottom of the skulls were a few glasses and a bottle of sugarcane tuak.

“Ini untuk apa ni, Kak?” I asked. “Untuk hantu nenek moyang datang minum ke?”

“Haha, mungkin!” Kak laughed.

If there was a ritual to be done, Kak said, coconut oil would be used when the spirits of ancestors were called upon. Offerings of food would be given to the spirits. Three priests would be elected to sit with the skulls while the villagers accompanied them.

“How were the skulls obtained?” I asked.

She explained they were skulls of the enemies of their ancestors. When they were killed in the jungle, the heads were cut off and the flesh was skinned off the bones and smoked. The skulls were then taken to be used in the Gawai rituals.

I looked at the skulls. Oh dear, I thought to myself. That’s not terribly warrior-like of them, were they, to be barbecued in such a manner.

Kak and Babai ushered me out of the Rumah Baruk. We had to catch the priestesses before they left their homes.

Kak was telling me how she had to endure the oddest of questions when she joined government service. Was it true that Orang Dayak ate people every day? Did she live on top of a tree? How did she and her family perform their ablutions? In a hole in the ground?

On our way to a priestess’s home we passed more youths sitting on benches. I noticed that they all had a wariness about them, like a pack of dingoes. Wiry, lean with deep set eyes, these young men were unemployed, in spite of having attended government schools.

Very few of them were stellar students, and very few were gainfully employed. Still, they viewed the elders’ practices disdainfully.

I looked back at the Rumah Baruk, and saw instead a dilapidated building that mourned the past. I had no choice but to romanticise it. The truth was that it was a crumbling shelter of rituals that had seen better days. Fate was cruel.

That was when I grasped it: Everything was still here. It was a different stillness. Unlike the stillness one heard in a lone village with crickets and cicadas singing from time to time, Kampung Opar’s stillness was unsettling.

We walked past houses and chickens. Kampung Opar was clean and sterile. I could not determine even a scent to remember it by. Even the flowers left no olfactory memories.

The Chairman appeared out of nowhere on a kapchai. Kak spoke her him and turned to me.

“Hari ini satu sahaja. Yang lain tidak ada di rumah.”

(“We’re only meeting one today. The rest aren’t at home.”)

“Mana mereka?” (“Where were they?”) I was desperate. If I had to run into the wilds of Borneo to find a priest, I would.

“Pergi pasar jual sayur. Di pasar Bau.” (“They’ve gone to sell vegetables at the Bau market.”)

“Jual sayur?” (“Selling vegetables?”)

“Ya. Mereka tanam sayur. Yang tak dimakan, dijual. Mereka perlu wang.” (“Yes. They plant vegetables. What can’t be eaten is sold. They need money.”)

A priestess.So. Even priests and shamans were not immune to modern life’s cruelties. Everyone has to work to survive.

The priestess I am introduced to had not been feeling well. It had been hot the last few days, so the visit could not be too long.

Her home was modestly decorated and modern. It was like any other Malaysian home.

Kak whispered, “Her story is very interesting.”

The priestess became one 22 years ago. She had fallen ill and tried all kinds of medication to get well. The whole village came around to help. Her husband didn’t know what to do.

She kept dreaming of an old person telling her what to do, and in her dreams she asked the person to guide her to heal herself. When she came to, she was told that her spirit husband, a “bunian” was trying to communicate with her. That was why she fell ill.

An elder taught her how to dress. And she was told not to sleep with her human husband for a year.

“Suami buniannya cantik orangnya,” Kak said.

Her human husband was not jealous of his rival. This was adat.

And then the meeting was cut short. Babai and the priestess looked at me. They spoke and Kak explained, “You have to come back again. Talking like this doesn’t teach you anything.”

I reached Kuching that evening, rather disheartened. I knew I would be coming back, and for a longer period.

Still, I was frustrated. The Bidayuh experience I had was just too short. What on earth could I write about?

That night, I remembered what my guide, Dr P, told me over lunch, about spirit guides and shamanism. What was shamanism in essence?

“It’s really about communicating with God. There is one God. Allah, you Muslims call God. Christians, Buddhists. They have their own name for God.”

“Our forefathers have a way of surviving and praying. But we have forgotten our faith and ways. We need to go back. We need to hear the messages from God. There are three ways: we hear, see or dream the messages of God. We depend on the wisdom and kindness, guidance of God and our guardians,” Dr P said.

As simple as that.

My long-time friends, childhood sweethearts, took me out to dinner later. My friend told me that in her neighbourhood there was the oddest house to observe, and it may serve my work well.

It was a corner house with shrines decked to the top, and sometimes Chinese men wearing songkoks and the baju melayu appeared, praying at the shrines. Sometimes the house was empty, or there would be people lining up to see someone in the house.

We visited the house, and spied from the safety of my friend’s car.

We were lucky. Men in songkoks and baju melayu dotted the roadside, as a couple of them talked to another man.

“That’s not a holy man,” I said. “That’s a bomoh, and I don’t think he’s a good person.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t. I just don’t think real, proper holy people would be dressed in costume. And sitting by the roadside.”

The whole scene was incongruous with the idea of spirituality, especially after the brief meeting with Bidayuh priests and priestesses.

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