The Plantation (25 page)

Stepping onto the tanju, Julie felt the slatted wooden floor creak and move with her weight. Shoes were removed, and they moved into the gloomy shade of a parallel long corridor that was the communal living area. Baskets, tools and storage bins were suspended from a loft and outboard motors, plastic tubs, a pile of gourds used to carry water, lengths of rattan and several large woven conical hats were piled against the walls.

‘This is the ruai, the main indoor verandah, and those are the bilek, individual living quarters for each family,’ said Chitra indicating the row of doors partitioning off each small apartment.

David took Julie’s arm. ‘Here we are. Because of the number of families in residence we might have to share rooms.’

‘I don’t mind sharing with Chitra,’ said Julie quietly.

‘Ah, she’ll be sharing with Matthew.’ David gave her a big smile and wink. ‘They’re old friends.’

‘Oh.’ Before she could ask where she would be sleeping, the headman came to them and introduced his wife. She smiled, picked up Julie’s bag and led Julie to the centre bilek and ushered her inside. The room was big, but cluttered. Two large mats had a traditional woven blanket on each while an intricately designed, half-completed blanket hung from a long loom leaning against the wall. The old leather suitcases and a basket in one corner probably held clothing, Julie thought, while sarongs, shirts and some bead necklaces were displayed along the bamboo frame of one wall. Large pots, including a Chinese ceramic one, water carriers, a brass gong and other metal ornaments, and a beautiful feather headdress were scattered about the room.

There was a roof flap, which was opened by a pole, letting in fresh air, and a bamboo door was propped open, showing a walkway that crossed to another small room. It was built with bits of corrugated iron and was obviously a detached kitchen. It occurred to Julie that fire must be a dreadful hazard in longhouses, even when the cooking fires were separated from the main dwelling. She recalled now seeing a small fireplace in the ruai, but this must be for warmth and not for cooking.

As she glanced around she realised that this room was the Tuai Rumah’s bilek, which he shared with his wife. Julie hoped she wasn’t being asked to share with them. But the chief’s wife handed her a rolled mat and one of the beautiful blankets and beckoned her to follow. Julie was led to a smaller bilek next door, which was more simply decorated with fewer possessions. The woman took Julie’s blanket, spread it on a floor mat, and dropped Julie’s bag onto it. This room was to be her lodgings, but who her roommates were she had yet to discover.

When Julie returned to the ruai, it seemed that the bedara, the welcome ceremony, had already begun. Everyone was seated in a circle. The women and children were on the outer circle, the men and the visitors at the front. Seated beside the headman was a very old man, his sculptured face cast in relief in the dim coolness. He wore his grey hair cropped in a short pudding-basin style with a fringe clipped in a straight line across his forehead. His ear lobes were splayed and hung heavily, almost to his shoulders, and he wore only a cawat, the local-style loincloth, folded in the front from the waist. He was heavily tattooed, even on the backs of his hands. Everyone showed him great respect.

‘This is Tuai Rumah Jimbun. He is the father of Tuai James. He’s eighty years old and used to work in the Sarawak Rangers in colonial times. He is greatly respected, not just because of his age, but because he has won a George Cross and, as you know, that is a very great honour,’ said Chitra.

The old man made a short speech and the wife of Tuai James placed a jug in the centre of the circle and glasses and plastic mugs were handed around.

‘It’s tuak, which is fermented rice wine. But you can’t refuse to drink,’ David whispered to Julie. ‘That causes offence.’

There was much laughter, explosive declarations, teasing and cajoling as the glasses were filled and passed. Julie took a sip of the tuak and found it to be extremely strong, but when she went to pass the glass on to Chitra there were howls of objection from everyone. Julie had no choice but to empty her glass. However, after three glasses, Julie felt quite dizzy, and looked at Chitra for help.

Chitra spoke to James’s wife and then said to Julie. ‘Nenek, grandmother, will take you outside. To the toilet space. It’s rather rustic, I’m afraid.’ She smiled apologetically.

Chitra was right about the toilet but as Julie made her way back to the ruai, she met a group of children playing outside. Some of the boys were scampering up a tall jackfruit tree to collect the heavy, spiked fruit. Two little girls, overcoming their shyness, tugged at Julie’s hand and led her under one end of the longhouse where there was a chicken coop containing some recently hatched chickens. One of the girls reached in and brought out a chicken for Julie to stroke. In a large bamboo cage nearby perched a sleek cockerel, which Julie assumed was a fighting cock.

By now it was late afternoon and the evening bathing ritual began. Julie was wearing a swimsuit under her shorts and shirt, but Chitra emerged from the long-house in a sarong and the two of them followed the other sarong-clad Iban women upriver while the men headed in the opposite direction.

In the river all the women chattered as they washed their long glossy hair, dunking themselves into the cool water. Chitra let her own dark hair swing loose, and to Julie she appeared to be at home in the water, like a sleek seal, her large, dark eyes shining. Julie floated and drifted away from the women until a voice called to her and she stood up, looking around.

A man was standing on the bank and while he was an Iban with the traditional long hair tied back in a smooth, knotted ponytail, his skin a deep honey colour, his features finely drawn, he looked out of place here because he was wearing aviator sunglasses, a stylish watch, and a pale-blue safari-style shirt tucked into well-cut shorts.

‘Be careful, there are sharp rocks a little further along, near the men’s pool,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’ Julie scrambled to her feet, the water swirling above her knees. ‘It’s just so refreshing.’

He nodded and turned, heading towards the longhouse.

As the Iban women walked back along the path carrying babies and watching their children frolicking, Julie asked Chitra about the man she’d seen.

‘A boat just came up. That’ll be Charles, Tuai James’s son. The old chief’s grandson. He works in Kuching in the police force.’

By now the visitors were becoming less of a novelty, and life in the longhouse proceeded as normal with the preparation of the evening meals and children to be fed and soothed, although it seemed to Julie the children were allowed to do as they wished and were not scolded. They clambered over the old people, played with the dogs and ran along the tanju squealing with joy. But Julie soon learned that the older children had tasks to do, carrying water, winnowing rice and picking out any fragments of husk, chopping wood, feeding the animals, and learning to repair the fishing nets.

‘Don’t they go to school?’ Julie asked Chitra.

She shrugged. ‘They are not forced to go. Travel is difficult and if they stay at a school in a town, the children don’t like to be away from their families. The old chief Jimbun is trying to keep the old ways going and because these people are so far away from any of the towns, it’s possible. But his son James is more inclined to value education, which is why his son Charles has such a good job.’

‘No TV, no radio, no internet, I suppose that helps this to stay a backwater,’ said Julie. ‘I feel really privileged to experience it, while I can.’

David came and sat beside them. ‘Yes, enjoy this while it’s still here. It’s a disappearing lifestyle. The cash economy is encroaching. The Iban grow rubber and pepper and sell woven cloth, blowpipes and carvings to traders but self- sufficiency is becoming harder. And the Iban also like modern things, like outboard motors and kerosene lamps.’

The meal, served on the woven floor mats, was made up of bowls of rice, dried fish, pieces of chicken and some root vegetables with fresh fruit. A bowl of water was passed to wash hands and then the food was shared. As darkness fell, oil lamps were lit. Some of the young girls, wearing glass bead necklaces, knelt in their short wrap skirts to play music on a set of small gongs.

As children fell asleep and the women sat in the background quietly talking, the tuak was brought out again and David, sitting close to Julie, said
,
‘Take a sip and pass the rest to me. Just be glad it’s not a festival. These people know how to party. And dance!’

Charles had now changed out of his western clothes and into a checked sarong. He sat between his father and grandfather. Matthew and David began to ask James questions.

Julie listened, but also watched an old lady teaching a younger woman how to make the pua weavings with the intricate designs that had been handed down for generations. Matthew had told her that in the old days every man took a human head as a fertility rite, while every woman wove an heirloom blanket. Happily, he added, the men no longer take heads, but the weaving continues.

But tonight the talk was of tomorrow. And the tomorrows to come.

‘The government has moved some Iban longhouse communities,’ said David. ‘And apparently some of these people like the new settlements and the new-style modern longhouses.’

Tuai James shook his head. ‘That is true, but they no longer own their land, and they cannot practise the old ways of farming. The younger people go away to school and when they come back they do not always respect our customs. They are clumsy in the prau and have little knowledge of adat, the law.’

‘Four thousand people have been moved out,’ said David. ‘Surely your time will come too.’

Matthew looked at Charles. ‘The dams? That’s the biggest threat isn’t it?’

Julie turned to Chitra. ‘What dams?’ she asked.

But before Chitra could reply, old Tuai Rumah Jimbun began thumping the floor and shouting in poor, but very understandable, English, ‘We will not move! Come what may! We will fight, as some of the Penans fought.’

‘But they still lost their land, their forests are logged, highways eat into the jungle and their way of life is gone. The animals are gone. The politicians, the men in the suits in the cities and their friends get rich,’ snapped his son Tuai James.

Charles put a calming hand on his father’s arm on one side and his grandfather’s on the other. He also spoke. ‘It is true. The dams will change Sarawak. Hydro-electric schemes and underwater cables to take their power to the rest of Malaysia, smelters and mines are planned. Long-houses like ours may also be flooded for more dams.’ He shrugged. ‘The old people do not want change.’

‘Is there anything that your grandfather can do?’ asked David.

‘He is keeping his fingers crossed. He hopes that the petara, the demi-gods will protect his family. He will ask the manang, the shaman, to call out to the dieties, Prince Kelieng and Princess Kumang in a special Gawai ceremony. They will kill a fat pig and smear the blood over his longhouse and family members to enable the gods to protect them!’ He paused. ‘This is my grandfather’s wish. But there are those who think that this is not enough and would like to take more action to fight the dams. But to fight the corruption, the political plans, the big business, the outside influence and investments is beyond simple people like us.’ He turned to Barry. ‘But it is a story I hope you will tell people. Show them what is being lost.’ And with that Charles rose and walked into the darkness.

The tuak was passed and the old women also began talking and it was obvious to Julie that everyone was talking about what the old headman had said.

Soon the music and singing began. The old songs, which told the stories of their past, the legends and the battles, echoed through the wooden longhouse. Children fell asleep where they were and the dipper went into the rice wine barrel to refill the jugs.

Julie was feeling lightheaded even from a few sips of tuak. David, who had had Julie’s share of the rice wine as well as his own, was certainly starting to enjoy himself. Julie decided that she needed to step out onto the tanju for some fresh air, so she shuffled to the rear of the circle and, picking up her torch, quietly left the party.

She stood at the railing, gazing at the outline of the jungle across the darkened river. What animals were about, she wondered? Would she ever be brave enough to sit out there, sleep in the jungle at night as her Great Aunt Bette could have done? Suddenly the jungle seemed too close and too confronting. But the laughter and singing behind her, the glow from the oil lamps, were comforting. She walked to the end of the open verandah and looked up at the mountains etched against the dark night sky. It was the first time she’d seen the stars clearly since being in Malaysia.

She felt the bamboo slats beneath her feet shudder with silent footsteps and she was about to turn around when a monkey, quite close to her, let out a screech followed by squeals. Julie shakily turned on her torch and swung it around but she could see nothing out there in the night. As the beam of light swung back onto the tanju she let out a small scream and jumped.

In the beam of the yellow torchlight faces leered and gaped at her. Empty eye sockets, grinning mouths, open in silent screams, a row of heads strung along a beam of light glared back at her.

‘Do not be afraid. They are old and harmless.’ Charles stepped forward. ‘They are trophies my forebears took in battle.’