Write an article about How do I love thee, Sarawak? Let me count the ways .Organize the content with appropriate headings and subheadings (h1, h2, h3, h4, h5, h6), Retain any existing tags from
I was off on a little adventure recently – nothing that would make my poor old bones complain, mind you, just a little jaunt across the sea to Sarawak.
I flew to Bintulu with some young friends, including one who had grown up there, and whose wedding I had attended about 12 or 13 years ago at her family’s longhouse 50km upriver in the interior of Bintulu.
That’s pretty much all I remember about it, on account of my porous memory and some Iban secrets I’d rather not share. Another friend said that a sign of a great wedding is that you don’t remember much about it. I like that kind of twisted logic, although I can understand if brides and grooms don’t.
Weddings in West Malaysia are either too formal and stiff, or too noisy and complex. Weddings in the longhouses of the jungles of Sarawak tend to be more colourful and joyous and, in my case, both memorable and forgettable at the same time!
This wedding longhouse contained over 50 individual homes, each competing to outdo the others on hospitality to their guests. Any visitor (even our king has visited a longhouse) will inevitably get caught up in such hospitable activities.
The longhouse is in Sarawak’s Sebauh district, which by itself is bigger than some states in Peninsular Malaysia. Today, there are proper roads from Bintulu and a very active local government that wants to bring in more business and tourism.
I eavesdropped on one of the discussions about the planned events. A big concern was a proposed river event. Apparently they might need to ask the help of the local police or military, on account of the river being full of man-eating crocodiles!
Elsewhere, man-eating crocodiles would have been an automatic disqualifier. But here and elsewhere in Borneo, it’s just another obstacle that has to be sorted out. Call in the police or soldiers, ask them to make a lot of noise on the river, and things will be fine for a few hours.
Obviously I wouldn’t be taking part. Any instance of me and crocodiles duking it up will leave only one party alive to celebrate, and I’m pretty sure that party won’t be me.
I met some of the local head honchos – local government leaders as well as business leaders. One was a Chinese businessman whose family has been there for generations, around whose businesses a lot of the local life seems to be centred.
He – and many other Sarawakians – speak better Malay than I do, and certainly better than many of the business and social elites in KL who live in their bubbles and whose command of the language probably extends only to ordering teh tarik.
Sarawakian generosity is also amazing, as well as the way some of them handle their wealth. This particular gentleman literally carried a wad of cash wrapped in a small plastic bag, like the ones grocery shops give you when you buy something.
Perhaps that’s what old money does to you. Or perhaps that’s what being comfortable with who you are does to you. I saw a half-million ringgit four-wheel drive nearby, likely his, so I’m sure he has other bigger plastic bags in which he keeps the rest of his money.
It’s probable he chose to be a big fish – perhaps a big crocodile – in the small pond of Sebauh, rather than live in KL and fight with the many other big fish and crocodiles there. If that’s so, he’s chosen right, and may he never run out of plastic bags for carrying his wads of cash around.
The opening ceremony of the Pesta Sebauh, an annual festival, was held the night we were there. Our longhouse was across the big river nearby, so we had to take a lovely short ride on a ferry. But just downriver was a huge bridge nearing completion, so clearly the ferries – which belong to the same Big Fish/Crocodile – have their days numbered.
The festival brought out just almost everybody from the nearby areas: it was packed with adults and children, games and stalls, and food and drinks. There was a stage where politicians spoke, “lions” and “dragons” danced, and local celebrities belted out songs in many languages.
Mr Big Fish/Crocodile was there too, being generous to all and sundry with food and drinks. He looked like he fit in and belonged perfectly in the local community.
The festival reminded me of growing up in the 1960s when such events were common and much looked forward to. Life was simpler then – not necessarily easier, but simpler – and such events stay in your mind even if later you had the chance to sample so much more of what the world has to offer.
It was the nights at the longhouse that I cherished the most. My friend’s family unit is no longer regularly occupied. Most of the people from there, especially younger ones like my friend, have left for the big towns and cities, leaving behind the older folks.
We slept on mattresses on the floor. I’ve been to some crazy places and slept in tougher conditions than this, so this didn’t faze me. But something else did.
My friend comes from a long line of chiefs, going back to the days when tribes and clans regularly got into dust-ups that involved kidnapping their enemies and occasionally sending some of them to the afterlife.
The house had many big ceramic pots that are older than the longhouse itself, which had apparently burned down in the old days before being rebuilt.
I won’t tell you what was in some of the pots, except that they’re the kind of things that give some people bad dreams.
I am generally OK with bad dreams: the dreams in the daytime can be bad enough that the ones at night don’t bother me too much. But my bladder is not so OK and gets me up a few times at night.
On more than one occasion, while unsteadily making my way in the darkness past others who were asleep around me in the longhouse, I grabbed and almost pulled down some of the pots. I was glad I didn’t – I’m sure I would’ve insulted the owners of the house, and the contents of the pots too, and that would give me bad dreams forever!
There is a lot of interesting lore and beliefs about the pots and the weapons from the olden days. They are powerful reminders of Iban life in the jungles from decades ago. And while life has changed since then, memories and beliefs from the old times tend to linger.
That and the fact Sarawakians and Sabahans seem to have found a way to coexist with each other in a live-and-let-live way is always a sobering thought, given how we in the Peninsula have never quite reached that part.
In many ways, the East Malaysians are the true Malaysians, examples of multiple ethnicities and cultures coexisting comfortably. I can understand why they’re wary of some of the political and cultural influences coming from the western half.
Their own cultures, even if they often stem from rather harsh origins, are certainly much healthier and open and accepting than cultures elsewhere. While they still have a lot of secrets – what’s inside those jars? – they also have a lot to teach us.
The views expressed are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of FMT.
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