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An evening with the Ibans
May 28,
The small band of mud-caked near-naked young boys were tearing
through the lalang and the
undergrowth from the direction of the river bank, shrieking and laughing as
they stumbled over one another towards the foot of the staircase of this lone
kampong house.
I was alarmed by their state of unusual excitement, and moved to the doorway to
investigate. Gasping for breathe, they fought among themselves for the chance
to report their discovery, "Uncle, a crocodile! At the river bank!"
Arms were flung apart at various lengths to indicate the size of the feared
reptile.
This was a matter of grave concern indeed for the Iban communities living along
the placid Stutong Rive meandering around the outskirt of
The scorching heat of the day had waned, and the stilted wooden hut with thatch
roof was basked in the afterglow of the sun, as the evening dusk descended upon
the surrounding rubber trees long abandoned to grow wild. Visitors had drifted
into the hospitable shade of the little hut in small parties. They were on
their way back from their gardens, where they worked the land as their ancestors
had done for countless generations, even though they no longer needed to.
They were urban Ibans. All the villagers in Kampong Stutong were related to one
another through marriage, and so forming a very big clan of pretty
self-contained community, an enclave of traditional Ibanness at the edge of the
modern bustling city of
All of them could trace their roots to somewhere near Sibu town in the
I had learnt about their origin from another source.
Secret
meeting
The whole area, some six miles from the city centre, had been going through
rapid development. New modern housing estates had been mushrooming on what was
once swampy rubber plantation land, forming the prestigious residential area of
Stampin. Highways were being planned to gain quick access to UNIMAS and large
development projects located over 20 miles away in the chief minister's
constituency of Samarahan.
SESCO, the
Since I was their elected member of Parliament at the time, some of the village
elders met me for advice, in a secret meeting in the dead of night, because I
was from an opposition party. The matter was eventually settled to their satisfaction,
thanks to the intercession of some helpful parties who did not want to see the
small matter becoming a big public issue.
During the course of my investigation, I had also discovered that most of the
desecrated graves did belong to early Iban settlers from Sibu, who had, for
some strange reason, migrated to Kuching over 100 years ago. Apart from the
physical evidence, there was the oral record.
The Iban people do not have a written language, but they more than compensate
for this lack by having an amazing oral tradition. Their myths, their tales of
heroic exploits long past, and the history of their entire race are all well
preserved in the telling of tales, lasting for hours on end, often in the
evening hours or during festivals when they find reprieve from their farm
chores. Reciting the genealogy of their family tree to five generations back in
time is mere child's play for an informed village elder.
There they were, in the late afternoon when the crocodile was sighted, sitting
on hand-woven ratan mats, some chewing their sireh with reddened teeth, some
smoking their rokok apong of
crimson Thai tobacco rolled in palm leaves, and some drinking the fiery langkau, a home brewed alcoholic
beverage that could rot the guts of the uninitiated.
Women enjoy
prominent position
They were just a cigarette's walk away from the new township offering all the
amenities of upper-middle class living, including posh apartments, a shopping
mall, and an exclusive club-house for the rich. Yet, they were shielded from
the symbols of modernity by a stretch of abandoned rubber trees, shrubs and
wild vegetation. Here, in the sea of urban living, was an
The news of the crocodile brought much excitement, especially among the women.
Unlike women in many native communities in
This is not surprising. After all, women are the ones who do most of the farm
work, planting and harvesting crops, and even helping to clear primary jungle.
With that kind of economic contribution and the physique that comes from hard
work, Iban women are not likely to submit to wife-beating, which is very rare.
I was foolish enough to suggest that we sought the aid of sharp-shooters from
the Forestry Department. We should protect the children, I said, since the
young ones bath and fish daily in the river. Why, if necessary, we should seek
the help of a bomoh, who could work his white magic to lure the beast to the
hunters!
This harmless and well-meaning proposal met with a storm of noisy protests. Why
should you disturb the buaya, the matriarch boomed from the back of the room,
when the buaya has not disturbed you?
Being well trained in public debate, I gave the rejoinder that, in the recent
past, a huge crocodile had eaten a young boy in Lundu a hundred kilometers
away. They had hunted down the monster with the help of a bomoh, and when they
cut the giant reptile open, they found the mostly undigested body of the boy
still in its stomach.
I then revealed the news that the legendary crocodile known to all Sarawakians
as Bujang Senang (easy
bachelor?) had been sighted again in Sri Aman. The report that this notorious
man-eater had attacked again filled the front page of all the local newspapers.
Perhaps the crocodile that the children had seen earlier at the bank of
One tale led
to another
I was immediately admonished for my ignorance by the matriarch without much
ceremony. Did I not know, she asked, that Bujang
Senang attacked the victim in question, because the victim's grandfather had
killed a crocodile in his life time needlessly? She then launched into a long
tale of the origin of Bujang Senang, a tale she had heard from her cousin, who
had married into a family in Sri Aman, where the myth of Bujang Senang had
originated.
As usual, one tale led to another, all about cosmic justice in the universe of
the jungle and the rivers, and the fate of those who transgressed the rules of
proper conduct while they travel through the wild. Never call anyone by name in
the woods. Never answer such a call, if you hear your name uttered. Never pick
up artifacts that appear out of nowhere in the middle of the wild forests. If
you have to relieve yourself along the path, murmur a plea for forgiveness
first. For women who happen to be menstruating, they should cover their waste
in layers of soil after they have relieved themselves.
I looked at the faces of the children listening enraptured to the adults
spinning their tales of supernatural wonders that inhabited their spiritual
world. Darkness had gathered force. Suddenly, the shadowy shades of the trees
and the shrubs outside the little house did look menacing.
In a few days' time, on June 1, all the Dayak people in