Share a laugh with the Iban
Borneo has much more to offer than orangutans and rainforests. As Natalie Crockett discovers, the people are the real charm.
Knocking back rice whisky after rice wine with descendants of a once-feared headhunting tribe was not how I envisaged my Wednesday would go. The day started off a lot more civilised with a journey taking in the spectacular views of Sarawak’s Batang Ai lake, a flat-as-a-pancake waterway that hides a sunken rainforest.
Our 40-minute journey is a smooth ride through turquoise waters, passing submerged tree tops that stretch towards the sun.
The jetty we’re destined for is difficult to spot, and the dense jungle beyond hides the real reason we are here. Once on land, we navigate the steep hill on which the longhouse sits – a patchwork of buildings on stilts, piled on top of the muddy incline.
The original structure burned down about five years ago after a cooking mishap. We’re told the newer buildings are more modern, although in what way, it’s not immediately clear.
It’s a modest house, put together with a mix of timber foraged from the land, and the odd bit of plywood for walls and floors. The few concrete walls it has were built by students from Sydney’s Brigidine College St Ives, who visited on an exchange programme and left their mark by painting their names on the kitchen wall.
Inside, the remaining timber walls are clad with tree bark and the floors are lined with expertly handcrafted mats. Thirty-eight families, all related in some way, live under one roof, led by a chief appointed through birthright from a long lineage of leaders in the tribe.
As we climb the rickety ladder to the main entrance, we’re welcomed by elder women.
‘‘Nama berita’’ (how are you?) we ask, ‘‘manah’’ (good) they respond, smiling, and taking our hands in theirs.
Barefoot we make our way into the main longroom (the ruai), where the community meets. We’re welcomed with tea and coffee, and slowly more families join us cross-legged on the floor.
Iban life is simple, but it’s not without hard work. As we sip tea, men are making and mending fishing nets while women weave mats from palm leaves, or dry newly-harvested peppercorns and rice in the sun. Small children are running about their feet. Those 7 and over would usually be in school, but it’s the holidays so, like children the world over, they’re sitting around chatting and playing on mobile phones and gaming devices.
Though nestled in the bush and an hour’s boat ride from the nearest town, the community is not completely cut off from the ways of the Western world.
A satellite dish is a noticeable addition to the basic home, with solar lights used after sunset, and the community has long-ditched traditional hunting methods. In years gone by they would have brought their dinner down with a paper-light poisoned dart, fired through a 7-9-metre blow pipe. Today, they pair long-trusted machetes with rifles. But what they are hunting hasn’t changed. Isolated and mostly self-sufficient, they’ll take anything they can get from the surrounding rainforest, from wild boar to monkeys.
They grow anything they can plant, and the land surrounding the longhouse is lush with fruits, vegetables and herbs. Peppercorns, tapioca, bananas, and pineapple line the path to the house, and home-reared chickens mill about alongside the house cats and dogs. A loud squeal from underneath the house indicates the presence of a pig, no doubt also destined for the cooking pot.
Food at lunch is delicious, and our group is amazed by what our hosts and guide Frankie throw together using the simplest ingredients. Succulent chicken with lemongrass, onions and herbs cooked inside a bamboo cane was the highlight.
Though the families are a tight-knit community, they have separate living quarters, and cook and eat only with their immediate family, except on special occasions. All rooms are accessed directly off the ruai and often consist of nothing more than
a mattress on the floor. On days like today, when they have visitors, they congregate and welcome. Such is the Iban way, it is difficult to imagine they were once feared for their headhunting practices, which is thankfully long behind them.
More than a century ago, it was a way of demonstrating which longhouse was the most powerful, and how young boys progressed to manhood. Much like the Australian walkabout, Iban men would take a ‘‘bajali’’ walking trip to learn about the ways of the bush and how to hunt. In groups of three to five, men would go off in search of an unsuspecting male member of a rival longhouse.
Once they had identified their target, they would capture and kill them, returning home with his head. This was then proudly displayed outside the longhouse for all to see – a signal not to cross those within. But the practice died out when missionary James Brooke spread the word of Christianity and the concept of ‘‘thou shalt not kill’’.
On the day we visit, such traditions seem a world away, and the only hint of their warrior past comes in the form of dance. The sudden onslaught of thrashing rain sees us confined indoors, where our hosts turn entertainers, exhibiting traditional moves to the melodic thumping of what look and sound like tin pots.
They are, in fact, Malaysian instruments called a bonang, a collection of small gongs placed horizontally on strings in a wooden frame. Together with some hand-held drums, they provide a hypnotic rhythm to which the dancers move.
First up is the acting chief (the real chief is away on business) who is dressed in a shirt made from tree bark and a headdress adorned with angus pheasant feathers and a squirrel tail. He begins by downing a cup of rice wine before giving a loud ringing shriek to show his dominance.
He moves slowly in time with the music, his arms moving around him imitating a bird, we’re told, before he switches to warrior mode to perform a battle dance with a machete and wooden shield.
Next up, it’s the turn of a young mum who, dressed in a tuneful skirt dripping with coins from around the world, moves in a more delicate way, with arm motions not dissimilar to a Polynesian hula.
Not content with our applause, our hosts insist we join in. A little stiff at first, a cup of rice wine each helps loosen us up, and it’s not long before we’re attracting cheers of our own.
With the rain outside, there is little else to do but enjoy the Iban hospitality which, if it wasn’t clear already, involves lots and lots of rice wine and rice whisky.
Huddled together in an ever-growing circle of families, we sink drink after drink, knocking our cups together chanting ‘‘oh-ha’’ (cheers) with every top-up.
We don’t speak the same language but we are united in the joy of each other’s company.
As the alcohol flows, the noise levels lift and we learn that an Iban good time is a loud one.
And no-one is louder than one of our guides, Rosa, who on our visit is returning to a longhouse a long time since she has visited her own in Sabah.
The group laughs with her, faces beaming as her loud cackles and shrieks draw smiles all around.
This is not her longhouse but she is at home here and they accept her, as they do us, as one of their own.
The writer travelled as a guest of Adventure World Travel and Malaysia Tourism.