Dance of the Ancients
An age-old ritual is celebrated with great pomp and much spirit — literally, writes Elena Koshy
BOOM... boom... boom. The drums reverberate through the expanse of sky and sea. The incongruous wail of the violin provides the mainstay of the melody that wafts through the air as the Tok Sidang or head shaman wades through the shallow waters. His weathered face, suggesting a calm, fierce authority looks out to the horizons as he stretches out his trembling hands to the skies while channelling the spirits of his ancestors.
Under the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun, the pageantry of an ancient custom is played out at a remote beach off Carey Island, Selangor.It’s no ordinary day. Every year, within a week of the Chinese Lunar New Year, the Mah Meri community — one of the 18 indigenous tribes in Malaysia — honour their ancestors and guardian spirits with a transcendent ceremony.
Hari Moyang Puja Pantai remains one of the last few remaining traditional rituals that pay homage to the dead while celebrating the birth of the new year. Commemorated at sea, the ritual is veritably linked to their ancient seafaring heritage, where the spirits of the seas are invoked for guidance, appeased and thanked for providing safety, provision and good fortune to the community.
The music is hypnotic, and the throngs of people following the Tok Sidang out to the sea find themselves swaying to the beat of the drums. He isn’t the only one channelling ancient ancestral spirits. His anak buah or “assistants” are found in similar trances; their faces contorted in various forms of ecstasy as their bodies move spasmodically to the beat of the drums. Out at sea, the solemn mood of the ritual gradually shifts into a joyous celebration. People are beginning to dance, and the ceremony takes on a dizzying, hallucinatory turn overseen by the benevolent Tok Batin, the village head of Kampung Sungai Judah, Carey Island.
With the sun shining overhead, it seemed like a perfect day to veer off the beaten track and visit the Mah Meri community of Carey Island, who have been using limited tourism as a means to preserve and sustain their way of life.
I’ve travelled about 40 km southwest of Kuala Lumpur to reach a place far removed from conventional civilisation; where the old ways haven’t been forgotten, where local people interpret the world through their dreams and where healing and insight are sought from ancestral spirits who have guided this little community of forest dwellers for aeons.
“We’re simply here to observe,” stresses Rashid Esa, director of the Mah Meri Cultural Village. “We’re here to show our support to this community and they have very kindly allowed us to be spectators at their ceremony.”
The Mah Meri Cultural Village was built to support the livelihood of this littleknown community numbering around 4,200 people. “There are about eight villages on the island itself, while two are located on the mainland,” he says, before reiterating: “We’re not the organisers. We’re merely promoting an ancient festival that’s been celebrated for thousands of years by this reclusive community.”
The word Mah Meri means “forest people” or people who live in the forest. Just like other indigenous tribes in this nation, the Mah Meri have long depended on the forest and the sea to survive. Terminologically however, Mah Meri also means bersisik (scaly) or Persisir (Coastal).
“Little is known about their history,” admits Rashid, pointing out that according to common belief, the Mah Meri were originally seafaring nomads who came ashore to avoid being captured by pirates operating in the Straits of Melaka and the Andaman seas. “They used to live on their boats, trading their catch for other essentials. Until today, they remain largely fishermen and traders.”
Known also as the “Masked Men of Malaysia”, the Mah Meri tribe is widely regarded as one of the best mask makers and wood carvers in the world, with many of their handiworks receiving the Unesco Seal of Excellence.
“The Mah Meri carves masks as a sign of reverence to their ancestors who are regarded as powerful and should be revered,” says Rashid, adding: “The word Moyang refers to the ancestors who are believed to be the guardians in safeguarding their peaceful existence and in meting out punishments such as sickness, difficulty in hunting and poor crops.” These expressive masks are worn during dance rituals to represent ancestral spirits.
To the Mah Meri, everything — whether living or inanimate — possesses a spirit. These are reflected in their carvings which are crafted from nyireh batu trees found in mangrove swamps.
“Their culture predates modern religion, and they have no concept of heaven and hell” explains Rashid, adding: “They’re animists and believe in two parallel worlds: the human world and the spirit world.” Once a year, he adds, a door opens between these two worlds.
“This is the festival that we’re observing today,” shares Rashid, adding: “From sunset yesterday, the door has been opened and the spirits can go through to commune with the shaman, passing on advice, blessings and warnings while receiving the community’s gratitude and thanksgiving.”
According to local folklore, Hari Moyang Puja Pantai began when a ship carrying passengers was caught in a huge storm off Carey Island. Somehow against all odds, the ship miraculously survived the onslaught of the storm when an unseen force dragged it to shore. The islanders believed that the Moyang Getah (Spirit of the rubber) had saved the ship from perishing at sea.
At sunrise, a day before the festival commences, villagers would gather on the beach and take their boats out to the sea near the mouth of the river. There, they’d throw popped rice into the water while villagers still on the beach would offer prayers to the spirit houses along the river mouth.
The shamans will visit different points on the rivers and sea, and with the aid of the spirits, mark off dangerous spots with colourful flags that serve as navigation aids for boats to avoid treacherous sandbanks. In each place, prayers are offered to honour and appease the spirits of the sea, culminating in a grand ceremony near the spot where they believe the ship (according to legends) was miraculously pulled to safety by the Moyang Getah.
Says Rashid: “The ritual not only acknowledges the powers of the spirits but it’s also a reminder to the villagers of the dangers they face at sea.”Fishermen respect the boundaries set by the shaman, and avoid areas that might endanger their lives. “The modern world has their radars and detectors that can identify areas that are unsafe for ships, but these villagers rely on the spirits to show them these areas,” he adds.
On the following day, the Tok Sidang
lead a procession of revellers, musicians and dancers out to the seafront — a 3.5 km walk that takes the large group through an oil palm plantation to a secluded beach where a large scaffolding-like wooden structure has been erected out in the open sea. This structure, called Rumah Moyang in Mah Meri language, is where food and drinks are laid out as offerings for the spirits.
Once the tide recedes, the shaman in a state of trance slowly walks onto the mudflats towards the structure, followed by a motley group of people comprising musicians, dancers clad in their traditional clothing of
terap bark and nipa fringe, villagers and curious onlookers. Not far from the erected
Rumah Moyang lie two points marked in a straight line, representing the route of the ship that survived all those years ago. This is the same route which the guardians of this coast would approach the platform at the summoning of the Tok Sidang.
The shaman soon sum- mons the spirits by name, inviting them to partake of the offering on the platform. The music floats on and after a while, a hypnotic-like thrall falls upon the place.The sun is blindingly hot — it’s mid-afternoon — but strangely enough, no one notices its relentless heat. The sacredness of the ritual isn’t lost on the visitors.
LOST IN TIME
Boom... boom... boom... The music changes to a more upbeat tone. A woven conical totem, believed to house the visiting spirits, is brought forward and placed at the first marker.Men in masks and traditional Mah Meri maidens come forward and start dancing the traditional
Jo ‘oh dance around the totem as the music reaches a crescendo.
A shift has taken place. The spirits have come. It’s time to revel in nature and to celebrate all that has taken place. The festivities have begun.
The group of musicians comprising youths playing the jule (violin), banjeng (bamboo zither), tungtung (bamboo stampers), tambo (drum), gong and occasionally the ginggong
(wooden xylophone) lead the festivities with music that is the mainstay of the entire event. Surely the spirits are entertained.
It’s hard to remain uninvolved. Never mind the fact that I’m in ankle deep mud and in all likelihood burnt by the sun, it’s time to shake off any inhibitions and join in the dance beneath the shadow of the Rumah Moyang which looms impressively like a sentinel against the blue skies.
Ever tolerant to having photographers thrust their cameras into their faces during the rituals, the community remains gracious and ever-smiling. It’s not their nature to be combative. “They’re one of the kindest people you’d ever know,” acknowledges Rashid softly. In fact, the Mah Meris have always been known to be accommodating — even at their own expense.
Described by the British as a shy and enigmatic people, they didn’t object when their island, formerly known as Telo’
Gunjeng (after a wild fern), was renamed Carey Island after Valentine Carey, the English plantation owner. Colonialism set out to take away their selfsufficiency on their own territory, and led them to working as menials on someone else’s land.
After acquiring the island, Carey proceeded to clear most of the island for rubber plantations and employed Mah Meri labourers to help clear the forests they spent their lives revering and depending upon. To date, 12,000 of the 17,000 hectares remain as plantations while the rest belongs to State Government land occupied by indigenous and local settlements. Most of the Mah Meri tribe do not have ownership of their ancestral land. Nevertheless, the gentle folks are determined to live out their lives in the relatively remote island away from the buzz of modernity. “The rituals will go on as usual.We’ll teach our young to carry on the traditions,” avers the affable Tok Batin Daiman Peron.
Pausing for a while, he continues wistfully: “Our biggest problem right now is the environment.The beach where we have conducted our rituals for hundreds of years now faces erosion. This is our sacred site but it looks like there will not be another festival here as long as this place isn’t taken care of.”
As more forests were turned into plantations, bunds were erected to keep out saltwater. As a result, the mudflats, mangroves and fishing grounds have been doomed, effectively stamping out the livelihood of the gentle seafaring community. This has also led to an increase in coastal erosion and flooding, Rashid explains.
Bringing in visitors is another way Rashid hopes to help the community. Allowing a controlled number of people to witness the culture and heritage of this tribe, he says, will help the outside world better understand the lives of the Mah Meri, and the challenges they face — both by development and environmental deterioration. “There’s still so much we can learn from them,” he says.
The winds of change are unavoidable. But to the Mah Meri tribe who’s dancing in the waning afternoon light, the simple life is all they want.And for as long they can, they’ll continue in the ways of their ancestors. But as for how long, who knows?
elena@nst.com.my