The Limbang River, in its lower and middle course, traverses a hilly

country, the elevations rising from 500 to 1,500 feet in height, and

consisting of hard sandstone, which contains coal in places, as in the

Madalam tributary. Limestone rocks are also found in the middle course of

the Limbang. In part they are Tertiary coral reefs, in part older rocks.

On the island of Labuan the Tertiary beds are greatly developed and

contain coal. The Rev. J. E. Tenison-Woods (_Nature_, April 23, 1885)

has stated that “the Labuan coals are probably of Oolite age, and not

connected with any marine formation, but apparently of Eolian origin.” I

am not aware that this view has received any support or confirmation.

Concretions of clay-ironstone are often present in the shales.

THE GEOLOGY OF THE PLAINS

_QUATERNARY_

Fringing the Tertiary beds almost continuously round Borneo, and often

extending into broad bands, are the earlier Quaternary beds, which are

to be regarded as shore deposits. These deposits constitute the great

coastal plains of Borneo, and were laid down during the last partial

submergence of the island. In part they form flat districts, in part

gently undulating plains.

In general the composition is everywhere the same. The highest bed

consists of a partly sandy clay, which towards the bottom becomes

more sandy, the sand grains at the same time increasing in size. The

conglomerates consist mainly of quartz pebbles, but also of pebbles of

different igneous rocks, such as gabbro, diorite, granite, etc.; they

also contain pebbles of the Tertiary strata, such as sandstones, coral

limestone, etc. Between these pebbles there is more or less of a clayey

earth, containing gold, diamonds, platinum, magnetic iron ore, and

chromite. The pebbly bed is often united by a very hard siliceous cement.

Towards the sea these deposits merge into marshy lowlands. While flowing

through the later alluvium the rivers have low banks, but in the earlier

Quaternary beds they flow between high, perpendicular, clay walls, in

a narrow gully. The bedding is horizontal, or, at the border of the

hill-land, only slightly inclined.

THE GEOLOGY OF THE MARSHES

_ALLUVIUM_

The river deposits show their greatest development in south Borneo,

where they form extended marshy plains. They are next best exemplified

in west Borneo; while they are least developed in the east and north.

They are composed of a dark brown, black, or bluish clay, which is often

rich in humus in its upper layers; in the lower layers it is of a harder

consistency. It is often mixed with, or traversed by, seams of sand; the

latter, as a rule, occurring on a lower level. The boundary with the

older Quaternary cannot be sharply drawn.

The bog formation and the marsh-land of the lower river courses of north

Borneo are of less account than in the south and west owing to the great

development of the sea sand, which hinders the formation of morasses.

They occur only in the river deltas, some of which are of considerable

extent. The great delta of the Rejang is a morass, and the swamps can

only be travelled over by boats. On the Baram the alluvium extends for

about a hundred miles from the coast.

The sea-sand formation extends from Sarawak as a long, broad strip of

sand dunes, right along the coast, excepting the river mouths.

(_b_) A SKETCH OF THE ETHNOGRAPHY OF SARAWAK.

We have not at present sufficient precise information to be able to

speak with certainty concerning the characters and affinities of all the

races and peoples that inhabit Borneo. One of our objects in visiting

Sarawak was the hope that by measuring a large number of people, and by

recording their physical features, we might help towards a solution of

the ethnic problems; we also hoped that further light might be thrown

on the matter by a comparative study of their customs, beliefs, as well

as of their arts and crafts. Our stay was of too short a duration, and

the ground we covered was not sufficiently extensive for us to do much

in this regard, and our physical results have yet to be fully worked

out. Fortunately Hose has made a prolonged and careful study of Bornean

ethnography, and when his voluminous manuscripts are published we shall

be in a much better position to pronounce on the subject. In the meantime

one must remain content with Ling Roth’s great compilation, _The Natives

of Sarawak and British North Borneo_.

In the following sketch of the ethnography of Sarawak I have purposely

dealt with the subject on broad lines only, since if we understand the

main features first we shall be the better able to formulate the real

problems, and this is a necessary first step towards their elucidation.

As most of the peoples that inhabit Borneo have representatives in

Sarawak, this sketch may be taken to apply provisionally to the island as

a whole.

Scattered over a considerable part of the jungle of Sarawak live the

nomad Punans. They are a slender people, of moderate height, and paler

in colour than most tribes. They were the lightest coloured of the

indigenous people that we met with in Sarawak; many have a distinct

greenish tinge. Those that we measured were slightly broad-headed, with

an average cephalic index of 81. The Ukit may be allied to the Punan,

but none of them have been measured as yet. Their mode of life is very

similar.

The wild Punans are grouped in small communities, and inhabit the dense

jungle at the head waters of the principal rivers of Borneo. They do not

cultivate the soil, but live on whatever they can find in the jungle.

There is so much that is edible in the jungle that there is no fear of

starvation, especially as these people live on a very mixed diet.

[Illustration: PLATE XXVII

PUNANS

A LELAK MAN, WITH TYPICAL TATTOOING ON SHOULDERS AND UPPER ARMS]

Their few wants are supplied by barter from friendly settled peoples, and

in return for iron implements, calico, beads, tobacco, etc., they offer

jungle produce, mainly gutta, indiarubber, camphor, dammar, and ratans.

They do not live in permanent houses, but erect miserable shanties in

which they sleep.

They are very mild savages, they are not head-hunters, do not keep

slaves, are generous to one another, are moderately truthful, and

probably never do an injury by purposely making a false statement.

On first acquaintance they appear melancholy, and certainly shy and

timid-looking, but when they have gained confidence they show themselves

in their true colours as a cheerful, bright people, who are very fond of

their children and kind to the women.

It is probable that eight hundred or a thousand years ago the greater

portion of Sarawak, perhaps the whole of it, was occupied by a weak,

agricultural people, who are now represented by the Land Dayak, Sĕbop,

Malang, Kanauit, Mĕlanau, Narom, Kadayan, Kajaman, Lelak, Long Kiput,

Batu Blah, Long Pata, Barawan, Kalabit, Dusun, and Murut. For this group

Hose and I propose the term Kalamantan.

From the measurements we have made of some of these tribes there is no

doubt that they were not all originally of one stock. Some are distinctly

narrow-headed, others are inclined to be broad-headed. As Hose and

myself propose dealing at some length elsewhere with the problem of the

ethnology of Sarawak, I will not here anticipate our discussion further

than to state that I believe it can be demonstrated that among this

primitive population, as indeed in most, if not in all, of the larger

islands of the Malay Archipelago, there are two stocks, one of which

is distinctly narrow-headed, and to which we may restrict the name

of _Indonesian_; the other being broad-headed, and to which the term

_Proto-Malay_ may conveniently be applied.

Hose states that the Muruts, according to their own traditions, migrated

from the Philippines. They are essentially of Indonesian stock, as are

also, I believe, the Land Dayaks. Probably it will be ultimately shown

that this dual element existed in very early times in the country, but it

has been blurred by intermarriage and by contact with immigrant peoples,

some of whom belonged to one or other or even a mixture of these two

stocks.

I do not intend to refer to even the main tribes of this group of

peoples; but I must allude to the Land Dayaks in order to emphasise their

distinctness from the Iban or Sea Dayaks.

My acquaintance with the Land Dayaks is of the slightest, and I have

had no opportunity of measuring any of them. Hose has given a Land

Dayak woman’s skull to the Cambridge Museum; its cranial index is 71·3.

Apparently they belong to a native stock that has been crossed with

Indo-Javan races; but they are not related in any way to the Iban. They

occupy the western end of the Raj as far as the Upper Sadong River; they

also extend into Dutch Borneo.

Brooke Low, who knew them well, gives a very favourable account of these

people, and this opinion has been confirmed by other travellers. They are

described as amiable, honest, grateful, moral, and hospitable. Crimes of

violence, other than head-hunting, are unknown. It is uncertain whether

the custom of head-hunting was indigenous to them, or adopted from the

Iban; probably it was an older custom than the arrival of the Iban, but

which had gradually increased until it was stopped by Rajah Brooke. The

Land Dayaks, alone in Sarawak, permanently kept the heads in a separate

house, which also served as the bachelors’ quarters.

The following account of the dealings of the Malays with the Land Dayaks,

which I have taken from _The Sarawak Gazette_ (Vol. xxiv., 1894, p. 98),

proves that the latter are rather easily imposed upon.

The Sarawak Malay can as a rule get on very fairly well with the Land

Dayak—better, perhaps, than he can with the Sea Dayaks up coast; he can

“_pèjal_,” that is, he can force his wares upon those who really have no

use for them, or who are not particularly in want of the goods hawked by

the Malay pedlar. Whilst the Land Dayak is turning over his mind as to

whether he will purchase or not, the seller sits patiently by smoking

and singing the praises of his wares. A Land Dayak usually takes a

considerable time in forming his mind in making a purchase, but time is

of no particular object to either party, and the bargain is completed.

The pedlar having obtained the customary cent. per cent. packs up his

baggage and departs to the next house or village as the case may be.

But the present Malay system of trading with the Land Dayaks is rotten

to the core. Land Dayak _bintings_, or villages, are perpetually

being visited, and the commonest articles of trade thrust upon them at

exorbitant rates, which they could purchase ever so much cheaper at any

of the numerous Chinese shops scattered through the river, and which are

easily accessible in a day’s journey, even from the remotest Land Dayak

habitation; such commodities as waist cloths (_chawats_) and petticoats

(_jamu_) trimmed with a little Turkey-red cloth are sold previous to

the rice harvest to be repaid in _padi_ at many times their respective

values; nor does it end here, the purchaser being expected to deliver

his payment at the house of the Malay merchant, entailing perhaps a long

journey on foot or miles of boat travelling, and again he is expected to

fully provide for those traders stopping in his house, such necessaries

as rice, firewood, provisions, and the like, which he does without the

slightest grumbling.

* * * * *

According to Hose, the Kenyahs and Kayans migrated into Sarawak from

Dutch Borneo several hundred years ago, and he has previously published

his opinion that the Kenyahs migrated into the Baram River some hundred

years or so before the Kayans; they were the only people able to resist

the constant raids made by the blustering and warlike Kayans, who almost

exterminated the smaller tribes, and made slaves of the weaker ones.

Naturally the Kayans occupied the best tracts of lands which lay in

the undulating hills between the swampy low country and the mountains

at the head waters of the rivers. They also confiscated all the caves

of the esculent swifts, selling their nests to the traders whenever a

Brunei Malay or Chinaman dared to venture up-river amongst them. Kayans

often travelled as far as Brunei in their long boats, and some few even

ventured as far as Singapore to sell the produce of these caves, taking

passage in Chinese junks from Labuan.

All the tribes, except the Punans and Ukits, are agriculturists; they

clear the jungle off the low hills that flank the tributaries of the

large rivers, but always leave a few scattered trees standing; irrigation

is attempted by the Kalabits only, as the _padi_ (rice) is grown like any

other cereal on dry ground; swamp _padi_ is also grown in the lowland.

In their gardens they grow yams, pumpkins, sugar cane, bananas, and

sometimes coconuts and other produce. They hunt all land animals that

serve as food, and fish, usually with nets, in the rivers, or spear

the fish that have been stupefied with tuba; river prawns are also a

favourite article of diet.

They all live in long communal houses, which are situated on the banks of

the rivers. I have already described this type of dwelling, but although

the different tribes have their own peculiar modifications, the same

general plan is adhered to.

The social organisation is correspondingly higher than among Punans.

Amongst the small Kalamantan tribes the headman has not much influence,

unless he be a man of exceptional power and energy, but among the larger

tribes, and especially among the Kayans and Kenyahs, the headmen are real

chiefs, and exercise an undisputed sway. In some cases a pre-eminent man

will be acknowledged as the head chief of a considerable district.

Of all these tribes the Kenyahs are perhaps the highest in social

evolution. By their superior solidarity and their undoubted intelligence

they were able to hold their own against the turbulent Kayans. They

are the most expert boatmen of the Baram district, and, what is very

significant, the women are less shy than is the case among other tribes.

Indeed, some of the girls and young women—for example, those in Tama

Bulan’s house—are particularly friendly and lively, but always behave in

a really ladylike way.

All these agricultural tribes are artistic, but in varying degrees. They

are all musical people, and sing delightful chorus songs. Many of their

utensils are decorated with no mean skill. In some tribes the ends of the

beams of the houses are carved to represent various animals; in some the

verandah is decorated with boldly carved planks, or with painted boards

and doors. The bamboo receptacles are often carved in low relief in very

effective patterns, and the bone handles of the _parangs_ are always

carved in an intricate manner. Lastly, the minor utensils of daily life

are often decorated in a way that reveals the true artistic spirit, such,

for example, as the plaited patterns on the rice baskets and winnowing

trays. Nor must the neat and effective bead-work be overlooked.

The Kenyahs and Kayans smelt iron and make spear heads and sword

(_parang_) blades; the former are especially noted for their good steel.

The forge with two bellows is the usual form that is widely spread in

Malaysia.

The Iban, or Sea Dayaks, formerly occupied only the Saribas, Batang,

Lupar, and Kaluka rivers and their tributaries, and they still remain

there; but as the Kayans and other tribes on the Lower Rejang have

retreated more into the interior, this river, for a considerable portion

of its course, is also now populated by Iban, who have migrated at

various times from the above-mentioned rivers. As the country became more

settled these truculent people have rapidly increased, and now occupy

most of the best farming lands.

In more recent years migrations of the Iban have taken place to the head

of the Muka River, the Tatau, and lastly into the Baram, but in all cases

with the sanction of the Government. Before the establishment of the

present Government the Iban were unable to obtain a footing on the Baram

River, as they were afraid of the Kayans and Kenyahs. They are also found

in the head waters of many of the Kapuas tributaries on the watershed

between Sarawak and Dutch Borneo.

The Iban is short (average stature 5 feet 2½ inches) and has a broad head

(average cephalic index 83). The colour of the skin of the men is, on

the whole, darker than among the inland tribes. They have the same long,

slightly wavy, black hair, showing a reddish tinge in certain lights that

is characteristic of the Borneans generally. They are an active little

people.

In Sarawak these people are spoken of consistently as “Sea Dayaks,” or

more generally “Dayak.” It is customary for the Dutch and other Europeans

to term all the interior tribes of Borneo “Dayak,” with or without a

qualifying designation. As there is such confusion of the terminology in

the text-books, I consider it better to boldly face the situation and to

introduce a new term to science to which a perfectly definite meaning can

be applied.

Most of the Iban inhabit low-lying land; they prefer to live on the

low hills, but this is not always practicable, and so they plant swamp

_padi_. All those who settle at the heads of rivers plant padi on the

hills in the same manner as the up-river natives. They also cultivate

maize, sugar-cane, sweet potatoes, gourds, pumpkins, cucumbers, melons,

mustard, ginger, and other vegetables. Generally groups of relations work

together in the fields.

Although they are essentially an agricultural people, they are warlike

and passionately devoted to head-hunting. The Iban of the Batang Lupar

and Saribas in the olden days joined the Malays in their large war

prahus on piratical raids along the coast and up certain rivers. Although

they probably never went out a very great distance on the sea, by

coasting they were able to attack numerous villages round the coast, and

they owe their name of Sea Dayaks to this practice. The great piratical

forays were organised by Malays, who went for plunder, but they could

always induce the Iban to accompany them on the promise that all the

heads of the slain should fall to their share.

Of the Iban, the Balaus, who live in and about the Lingga River, are the

most efficient in handling boats at sea. The inland Iban of the present

day are usually inexpert boatmen in rough weather, and even in river work

they are nothing like so reliable in emergencies as the up-river Kenyahs.

The Iban women make beautiful cotton cloths on a very simple loom. The

intricate patterns are made by tightly tying up several strands of the

warp with leaves at varying intervals and then dipping the whole into

a dye. On removing the lashing the threads that were tied are found

to be undyed. This process is repeated if a three-colour is desired.

The pattern is produced solely in the warp; the woof threads are

self-coloured, and are not visible in the fabric, which is therefore

a cotton rep. I have accumulated material for a special study of the

numerous designs woven and embroidered by Iban women, as well as of the

elegant patterns engraved in low relief on bamboos by the men, but there

has not been time to work them out. It is an interesting fact that the

decorative art of the two sexes is entirely distinct in motive and style.

The Iban women did not tattoo, though a few may now be seen with a little

tattooing; but most of the men have adopted the custom from the Kayans.

They admit that the tattoo marks are Kayan designs, but it very rarely

happens that the Iban transfer such a design to their bamboo decorations,

and the Iban women never adopt Kayan or tattoo patterns for their fabrics.

It is probable that the Iban belongs to the same stock as the original

Malay. If this view is correct, the Iban migration may be regarded as the

first wave of the movement that culminated in the Malay Empire.

The Malay must have come to Borneo not later than the early part of

the fifteenth century, as Brunei was a large and wealthy town in 1521.

Probably the Malays came directly from the Malay Peninsula, but they must

have mixed largely with the Kadayans, Mĕlanaus, and other coastal people.

The Sarawak and Brunei Malays are probably mainly coastal Borneans with

some Malay blood; but they have absorbed the Malay culture, spirit, and

religion.

The movements of the different peoples which I have so briefly sketched

have a sociological significance which is worth tracing in detail, but I

do not propose to inflict on my present readers anything more than the

merest outline of this interesting line of inquiry.

The Punans represent the lowest grade of culture in Borneo. They are

nomad hunters, who combine with the chase the simple exploitation of

jungle produce. Without social organisation they are incapable of serious

combination, and are alike incapable of any real endemic improvement or

of seriously affecting other peoples.

The purely agricultural tribes that cultivate _padi_ on the low hills or

in the swamps form the next social stratum.

The Kalamantans were evidently a weak people, as they have been repressed

and often subdued by other peoples. For example, the Kadayans and the

Mĕlanaus have been very largely affected by the Malays, and the Iban have

harassed the Land Dayaks, and the latter had previously been influenced

by the Javano-Hindu colonisation of Borneo. It is also probable that some

of the tribes of this group of peoples have been modified by contact with

the Chinese. It is suggestive that all the stone implements Hose has

collected have been obtained from Kalamantans, either the pure or mixed

stock.

These indigenous tillers of the soil have been hard pressed by various

swarms of foreigners. The Kenyah-Kayan migration was that of a people

of a slightly higher grade of culture. It is true they also were

agriculturists, but their social organisation was firmer, and they were

probably superior in physique. Possibly they introduced iron weapons; if

so, this would give them an enormous advantage. At any rate they were

clever smiths. These immigrant agricultural artisans, who were directed

by powerful chiefs, had no difficulty in taking possession of the most

desirable land.

From an opposite point of the compass in early times came another

agricultural people, who strangely enough have strong individualistic

tendencies, the usually peaceable habits of tillers of the soil having

been complicated by a lust for heads and other warlike propensities.

Although inclined to raid their neighbours, the Iban do not appear to

have made much headway—certainly not against the Kayans and Kenyahs.

Conquest implies a strong leader, obedience to authority and concerted

action. So far as I can gather, the Iban only became formidable when led

and organised by Europeans, and at the present time the individualistic

temperament of the Iban manifests itself, even under the leadership of an

English civil officer.

The Malay was a yet higher social type. His political organisation was

well established; he had the advantage of religious enthusiasm, for

Islamism had no small share in the expansion of the Malay. In Borneo

he is not a cultivator of the soil, but is a keen trader, and this is

another factor in the Malay expansion, especially when coupled with pluck

and enterprise. Although a trader, the Malay is essentially a pirate; he

seeks to exploit the people with whom he comes in contact, and there is

a sporting element in his character, as I understand it, which is not

compatible with steady trade. It seems that it was chiefly the Malay in

his rôle of pirate who incited and led the Sea Dayak in his raids on

other tribes. While the glory and heads fell to the Iban, the valuable

spoils of war and the slaves were the booty of the Malay.

Then appeared on the scene the Anglo-Saxon overlord. The quality of

firmness combined with justice made itself felt. At times the lower

social types hurled themselves, but in vain, against the instrument that

had been forged and tempered in a similar turmoil of Iberian, Celt,

Roman, Teuton, and Viking in Northern Europe. Now they acknowledge that

safety of life and property and almost complete liberty are fully worth

the very small price they have to pay for them.

I do not know what were the conditions of the early Chinese trade with

Sarawak, but at present the Chinaman is a legitimate trader. Owing to the

settled state of the country under the white men’s rule, he is rapidly

increasing his sphere of influence, and by his better business habits he

is ousting the Malay. Even now the intrepid Malay trader will be found

paddling his trading canoe in the upper waters of the rivers of Sarawak,

where the Chinaman dare not venture; but wherever the Government builds

a fort, Chinamen lose no time in erecting their stores, and proceed to

absorb all the trade that previously was in the hands of the Malay.

The piratical cruises of the Malays have been stopped by the Anglo-Saxon

overlord, and their exploiting trading has had to give way before the

more legitimate commerce of the Chinaman.

NOTE.—For the most recent information on the geology of Dutch

Borneo the reader is referred to Dr. G. A. F. MOLENGRAAF’S

_Geologische Verkenningstochten in Centraal-Borneo_. Leiden: E.

J. Brill.

CHAPTER XXI

A TRIP INTO THE INTERIOR OF BORNEO

The following is an account of some experiences on an up-river trip, when

McDougall, Ray, and myself accompanied Dr. Charles Hose, the Resident

of the Baram District of Sarawak, Borneo, on one of his administrative

journeys.

The Baram is the second largest river in Sarawak; it rises about 3° 10′

north latitude in the unnamed and unexplored mountains which form the

division between Sarawak and Dutch Borneo, and enters the China Sea at

the end of a prominent spit at 114° east longitude.

The Government station and fort are situated at Marudi, or Claudetown,

about seventy miles up the river; here is also a large Chinese bazaar.

Hose and the Assistant Resident, Mr. Douglas, are the only two Europeans

resident in a district that comprises at least ten thousand square miles.

About thirty miles above Marudi the Tinjar joins the Baram; this affluent

is almost as large as the main stream, and for a hundred miles it runs

a course roughly parallel to the sea coast, but distant from it about

thirty to sixty miles, as the crow flies.

On February 6th (1899) we started for a trip up the Tinjar. Only three

or four white men had previously been up this river, and practically

nothing has been written about it; consequently we were to all intents

and purposes breaking fresh ground. But my object in writing this account

is not solely to describe a few incidents of our visit to some of the

interesting and unspoiled aborigines of Borneo, but also to give an idea

of the personal method of dealing with native peoples, which is the

keynote of the Sarawak theory of government.

[Illustration: PLATE XXVIII

SIDE VIEW OF A KAYAN HOUSE

VERANDAH OF A KAYAN HOUSE AT LONG LAMA, BARAM RIVER]

On the 7th of February we visited a Lelak village at Long Tru. The

village, as is often the case, consisted of a single house of great

length, and built on piles some ten feet high. The long houses of this

district of Sarawak are built along the banks of the rivers; usually a

notched tree trunk is laid on the slope of the steep bank, and other logs

are placed end-wise from this to the house to serve as a causeway across

the slippery and often foul mud. A house consists of two portions—a

verandah extending along the whole length of the river frontage, and a

series of domiciles opening on to the verandah.

The verandah is entered at the end, and by two or three doorways at the

side. The ladder consists of one or more notched tree trunks, usually

with a slight hand-rail, the use of which is as often as not dispensed

with by the nimble, bare-footed inhabitants, and even the dogs have

learnt to go up and down these precarious ladders. Sometimes light, broad

ladders are erected, of which the rungs are quite far apart.

On entering a verandah the first thing that one sees is the long wooden

partition, about eight to ten feet in height, that separates the verandah

from the dwelling apartments; this is pierced at fairly regular intervals

by wooden doors, each of which gives access to a separate house. Each

house, which, by-the-by, is always spoken of as the “door,” is divided

into variously sized rooms or cubicles; generally a narrow passage opens

into a central room, which is the living-room by day and a sleeping-room

at night; the cooking may be done here or in a separate small kitchen.

The wife has a separate bedroom, or if there are two wives, each has her

own room, and the elder girls usually also have one. A long house numbers

from ten to fifty, or even as many as eighty or ninety doors, so that

there may be from fifty to five hundred people, men, women, and children,

in one of these strange dwellings.

The privacy of the home is thoroughly respected, but the society of the

neighbours can always be enjoyed on the verandah, which is a broad, open

space that extends along one side of the house. This is practically

divided into an inner common gangway on to which the doors open, and a

portion that runs along the outer wall of the house, and is generally

slightly raised above the general level of the floor. The space of this

outer portion of the verandah opposite each house belongs to the owner

of the house, and, according to his taste or means, he keeps the space

in good order and lays down mats. It is here visitors are received, the

public business transacted, and neighbours sit and gossip and smoke or

chew betel.

Most interesting is it to lounge and watch the daily life of the

village, the men and women going to or returning from their gardens,

and girls bringing up water. In some tribes the pounding of the rice in

heavy wooden mortars is done on the verandah, and one is never tired

of watching the rhythmic movements of the nearly nude women as they

husk the rice with long thick poles, and gracefully push the grain into

the mortars with their feet; the sinuous motions of lithe damsels are

particularly fascinating. After the husking is finished the rice is

winnowed in plaited trays by standing or crouching women. Then there

are the jolly children, half fearful of the white-skinned stranger, yet

always ready for a game. Happy, contented little mortals they are, very

rarely squabbling among themselves, and still more seldom troubled by

their elders.

Hanging from the rafters of the verandah in most houses are trophies

of human skulls. They may be fastened to a circular framework looking

something like a ghastly parody on the glass chandeliers of our young

days, or they may be suspended from a long board, which in one house that

I visited was painted and carved at one end into a crocodile’s head, and

the board itself was suspended from carved images of men who represented

captives taken in war.

The skulls are smoke-begrimed and otherwise dirty, and interspersed

among them are streamers of dried palm leaves, which all over Borneo are

invariably employed in all ceremonies connected with skulls. Usually

close by the skulls are pronged skewers on which pieces of pig’s meat

may be stuck, and short sections of a small bamboo so cut as to form

cups ready for the reception of borak (a spirit made from rice), when it

is desired to feast the skulls or their spirits. Below the chandelier

of skulls there is always a fire which is kept continually burning, for

it is believed the skulls like to keep warm, and that if they are kept

comfortable and their wants supplied, they will bring good luck to the

house and ensure plentiful harvests.

The artistic taste of the people often manifests itself in the

decoration, by painting or carving, of the doors or of the wooden

partition of the verandah. On the latter are often hung shields,

gongs, and the large ornamented women’s hats, which have a really fine

decorative effect.

When one is tired of the sights of the verandah one can turn round and

look over the low-boarded parapet towards the river with the prospect

beyond. Sometimes jungle alone can be seen, but usually there are _padi_

fields on the low hills, and perhaps some plantations of yams and clumps

of bananas.

The word “Long,” which enters into so many Bornean names of villages,

means the mouth of a river, and as many villages are situated at the spot

where one river enters another, they are named from the smaller stream.

This village took its name from the Tru River, but it sometimes happens

that when a village shifts its quarters the old name is retained, and

some confusion may arise.

[Illustration: FIG. 32. BUTIONG IN A LELAK HOUSE]

The domicile at one end of the Long Tru house had projecting from the

partition into the verandah a queer wooden sleeping bunk with lattice

windows; a notched pole served as a ladder. It is not uncommon to find

sleeping bunks for men built on the verandah, but one attached to the

wall like a meat-safe is very unusual. By the side of the door of the

same dwelling stood a rudely carved wooden image (_butiong_), in this

instance a female figure, which represented a goddess who protected the

house from any harm or sickness, but should there be any illness previous

to the placing of the _butiong_ in the house, she would prevent it from

becoming worse. Stuck on to the wall of another dwelling was a portrait

of Lord Kitchener!

About twenty miles up the Tinjar is the Bok River, and we left the

steamer and paddled up this tributary in canoes to visit a small

community of Punans. The Punans are, as I have already stated,

essentially a nomad people, who inhabit the jungles of Sarawak and do

not build permanent habitations. They do not cultivate anything, but

they collect jungle produce which they sell and barter amongst the more

settled tribes, who further trade these with Malays or Chinamen. The

Punans are an interesting folk, and may be the remains of an ancient

aboriginal population. The settled Punans were very dirty, and looked

miserable; they lived in a tumble-down house. But one must not expect

much from people who are making the first step out of absolute savagery.

[Illustration: FIG. 33. SARCOPHAGUS OF A BOY IN A BARAWAN HOUSE]

The wilder Punans we saw later were a better-looking people, and compared

with the settled Punans it really seemed as if the latter were paying

rather dearly for their slight advance in civilisation; but probably a

fixed though squalid home is preferable to a temporary leafy shelter.

On the night of February 8th we slept at Taman Liri’s village at Long

Tegin. On the verandah against the partition-wall was the sarcophagus of

a child. It consisted of a sort of decorated wooden case with a lean-to

roof of palm leaves. From one end of the case projected a gaily-painted

board carved to represent a head, neck, and arms. The head with its

upright ears looked very much like that of a tiger, but we were assured

it was intended to be the effigy of the dead boy who lay in the hidden

coffin; hanging over this was the boy’s hat. Suspended from the eaves of

the tomb were wooden models of a sword, knife, kris, paddle, spear-head,

and other objects, and leaning against it were a couple of large

gongs. On one side of the sarcophagus were hen-coops, a gong, a basket

containing plates and a small bamboo vessel; on the other side were a

gong and a jar. On the partition-wall were three hats, two fish traps,

and a fishing net.

Although Taman Liri is a _penghulu_, or head chief, he complained that

the Long Tobai people had left him and had gone to live with Aban Abit at

Long Tisam, a little higher up the river, the latter chief having enticed

them away. Hose questioned some of the friends of the Long Tobai people,

who stated that the reason for the latter not wishing to live with Taman

Liri was that he constantly shifted his house, and that he did not fulfil

his annual promise of building a really good house. They were sick of

living in this unsatisfactory manner, and therefore went to live with

Aban Abit, who also was a Barawan, and who had a very good house at Long

Tisam. Hose told Taman Liri it was unreasonable to expect people to shift

their house every year, as the greater part of their time was taken up in

house-building, and their plantations suffered in consequence.

We next visited Aban Abit, who certainly has a much better house than

Taman Liri. Owing to the influx of people the house was being extended.

When we walked over the framework of the extension we were cautioned to

be careful not to fall through. This warning was not given solely to

save us from injury, although a fall of some fifteen feet would not be

particularly pleasant, but because if anyone fell off a house in process

of building a new house would have to be built elsewhere, as would also

be the case if a dog were killed in the house. We stayed here a couple

of days and measured a number of men, and I made some sketches and

photographs.

Soon after our arrival Aban Abit gave each of his new visitors a present,

a nice spear falling to my lot. Before leaving I gave his two wives some

white calico. On another occasion Tama Bulan, the most famous chief of

the Baram district, gave me a large shield decorated with hair, and a

Dayak fortman once gave me a musical instrument. But these were the only

presents I received from natives; indeed they very rarely give presents,

in our sense of the term, in any country I have visited.

[Illustration: FIG. 34. PRAYING TO A PIG IN A BARAWAN HOUSE

On the partition wall are two large women’s hats, with yellow and black

bead-work]

It was here I first saw the ceremony of divination by means of a pig’s

liver. A live pig with its legs tied was brought on to the verandah. Aban

Abit took a lighted brand and slightly scorched it, at the same time

praying to the Supreme God, and the pig was asked to give the message to

the god, who was requested to make his will known by means of the liver

of the pig. When the scorching was over the suppliant kept the fingers

of his right hand on the flanks of the pig, so that he was in touch with

the animal all through his address, at the same time slightly prodding

it with his fingers to make the pig pay attention to what he was saying.

Finally a spear was thrust into the neck of the pig, and as soon as all

the kicking was over the side of the pig was ripped open, and the liver

rapidly and dexterously extracted and placed on a dish. The old men

crowded round and discussed the augury. The size and character of the

various lobes of the liver, the appearance of the gall bladder, and the

amount of fat and tendon, are objects of the closest scrutiny, and these

all have a definite significance.

Divination by means of a pig’s liver is resorted to on most important

occasions. If anything special is wanted they inquire of the pig. If

they fear any enemies are coming, or ill luck or sickness, they ask the

pig whether it is a fact that this will happen. They tell the pig not to

mislead them, and to convey the message to the Supreme Being. The pig may

even be told that they are not going to kill it or eat it; but the pig is

killed the instant they have finished talking, lest the message should be

altered by the pig if it knew it was to be killed.

There is always great difficulty in arriving at the true explanation

of any particular custom; probably in many cases there is no single

explanation which is universally admitted by the natives themselves. It

rather seems as if in this pig ceremony the soul of the pig was directly

addressed, and that on the death of the pig it was liberated, and thus

was able to convey the message to the Supreme Being. The application of

the lighted brand may be a secondary custom, introduced from the analogy

of the cult of the omen animals. I am indebted to McDougall for this

latter suggestion, who also thinks that the primary proper function of

fire in a rite is to carry the message to birds or distant powers in case

no other messenger, such as a pig’s soul, is at hand.

Knowing that I was very anxious to obtain some human skulls for the

collection at Cambridge, Hose negotiated with Aban Abit for some. This

was a very difficult matter, as skulls are sacred, and not only bring

good luck if well treated, but contrariwise they may do harm if they are

offended. It is no small matter to prevail upon a man to part with skulls

under such circumstances, as he feels he is running great risks, and

natives fully realise that wealth can be bought too dearly. What gain is

it to have an extra gong if the harvests are bad, if sickness comes, if

troubles accumulate?

The following is the way in which the skulls were propitiated. A fowl

was obtained, a very little one, for these wide-awake people recognise

that it is the idea at the back of the sacrifice rather than the worth

of the victim that is efficacious, so there is no need to extravagantly

make use of a full-grown fowl when a fledgling will do as well. The

chirping chicken was waved over the skulls, and the skulls were told that

those of them that were going to be taken away were given and not sold

(for here, as in our folk-tales at home, it is very easy to deceive

spirits), that they would be well taken care of, and they were entreated

not to be angry, as everything was “quite correct,” and that the white

man would take the whole responsibility and bear all the risks. Then the

head and wings of the luckless chicken were torn off, and the spurting

blood sprinkled on the skulls and charms, and even on the notched pole

which served as a ladder. Hose had to provide a piece of iron, an old

spear-head in this case, as a gift to the man who took down the skulls.

It was only the great influence that Hose has over the natives and his

generous offer, combined with his knowledge of and deference to native

customs, and their personal regard for him, which enabled him to obtain

these and other skulls.

In the evening we had a performance on the phonograph, which gave great

enjoyment to the natives of both sexes and all ages. As in New Guinea,

the reproduction of their own songs pleased the people much more than

hearing the band-music and songs on the cylinders we had brought with us

from England. Later on several of the natives performed some of their

dances for us.

We were informed that people were spreading a scare similar to that known

as the _Panyamun_ scare of five years previously. Reports of all kinds

were rife as to the originators of the trouble; some said the Malangs

started it, others that it arose among the Sĕbops or the Barawans, while

some thought it had come from the Baram River.

Hose explained fully to the people the stupidity of circulating and

believing in such rumours, which always caused them a great deal of

trouble, and they could not have forgotten that, owing to the last

_Panyamun_ scare, several people lost their lives. It was, therefore, his

intention during this visit to the Tinjar to trace the originators of the

false rumours, and if the evidence was sufficient to convict them, they

would be heavily punished. It was consequently to everybody’s interest to

assist in the discovery of these troublesome people.

During the greater part of the year 1894 a remarkable and widely

distributed panic spread over Sarawak, and all the races of the Raj,

Chinese, Malays, Sea Dayaks (Iban), and various inland tribes were alike

affected.

The Malays of Sarawak and Brunei started a rumour all through the country

that the Rajah was anxious to obtain a number of human heads to lay

in the foundations of the new high-level reservoir at the waterworks

at Kuching, and that men were sent out at night to procure them.

Similar stories with accompanying panics have occurred elsewhere in the

East during the execution of large public works; as, for example, in

Singapore, when the cathedral was built.

Professor E. P. Evans states[4] that as the Siberian railway approached

the northern boundaries of the Chinese Empire, and surveys were made for

its extension through Manchuria to the sea, great excitement was produced

in Pekin by the rumour that the Russian minister had applied to the

Empress of China for two thousand children to be buried in the road-bed

under the rails in order to strengthen it. He also informs us that some

years ago, in rebuilding a large bridge which had been swept away several

times by inundations in the Yarkand, eight children, purchased from poor

people at a high price, were immured alive in the foundations. As the new

bridge was firmly constructed out of excellent materials, it has hitherto

withstood the force of the strongest floods, a result which the Chinese

attribute, not to the solid masonry, but to the propitiation of the river

god by the offering of infants.

I have elsewhere[5] alluded to this barbarous custom which has been

widely spread over the “Old World,” and which has left its mark in modern

Greek folk-song, and can still be traced in the singing-game of “London

Bridge” played by village children in the British Isles.

Sir Spenser St. John writes in his recent book _Rajah Brooke_: “Another

intelligent native remarked that the English must have been a barbarous

race, as formerly they sacrificed a human victim every time they prepared

to take the Sacrament, but that in more modern days they had become

more civilised, as now they only sacrificed dogs, a reference to the

periodical destruction in British settlements of all stray animals. What

a perverse interpretation of missionary teaching!”

Many Sarawak natives went so far as to assert that they had met with the

head-hunters among the villages. Great anxiety was caused amongst all

classes; at one time numbers of people left their plantations, refusing

to do any outdoor work except in large parties; even Chinese _padi_

planters in some instances left their isolated houses and crowded into

the bazaars.

Other equally absurd stories were circulated and believed in. About

fifty Ulu Simunjan Land Dayaks came down in September the same year

to the station at Sadong and stated that their district was infested

with spirits and ghouls. They asked for leave to hunt down the _hantus_

(spirits) in the jungle, as these came by night into the kampongs and

shoved sticks and weapons through the walls of their houses, much to

their alarm and fright. The Land Dayaks were warned against making this

an excuse for molesting anyone without just cause, for it was by no means

improbable that mischief would ensue if they were allowed to hunt down

_hantus_ indiscriminately. Thousands of people living many miles apart

were panic-stricken simultaneously, and believed it was unsafe to walk

about at night unless armed, and that death would result if a _hantu_

caught a man. One result of this particular scare was that coolies

refused to do any sort of work unless they could be safely back in their

houses before nightfall, and married couples who lived by themselves

crowded into the larger houses, which were already full.

Evilly disposed persons were not slack in utilising this _panyamun_, or

“robber,” scare for their own nefarious purposes, and numerous murders

were perpetrated, the murderers pleading that they thought the victims

were prowling round for heads.

It can be readily understood that the whole country was in an excited and

unsettled state, and this feeling was more or less answerable for various

crimes and tragedies. One example of each must suffice.

At the close of the year a man named Newa with four followers was killed

at Long Balukun on the Apoh River. A Kenyah named Mawa Obat asked Newa,

when sitting in his canoe, to give him some tobacco, and murdered him

whilst he was in the act of complying with his request. The Resident

believes that one Remau, a worthless Undup Iban, who had married a Kenyah

woman residing in the Long Balukun house, was to a great extent the cause

of the death of these five men. Remau made up a story about the spear

being thrust through the floor of his room, which spear he said belonged

to Newa, and afterwards, when it was proved that the spear could not

reach the floor of the house, as it was built very high off the ground,

he said it was through the wall that the spear was thrust. The Long

Balukun people were very short of food at the time, and there is very

little doubt that Newa and his party were murdered for the eight bags of

rice and fifteen katties of tobacco they had.

In January, 1895, Kempieng, an Iban, and his wife, were visiting Radin,

who had married Jerieng, the sister of Kempieng’s wife, and who lived on

the Beradong, an affluent of the Rejang River. One night, about 9 p.m.,

Jerieng left her room to go out on the _tanju_, or outside platform, her

husband, who accompanied her, going first. Kempieng and his wife were

sleeping in the _ruai_ (verandah), and as Jerieng passed them he sprang

up and speared her. Kempieng admitted the facts at his trial, but pleaded

that the people in Radin’s house were in a disturbed state, and kept

their weapons handy owing to a scare of _panyamuns_, or _hantus_ (robbers

or spirits). On the night in question, hearing someone moving near him,

he arose and took his spear down; whilst doing so he accidentally kicked

the lamp over and it went out. He did not thrust with his spear, but held

it before him, and the deceased ran against it. It is, however, more

probable that he got up in a state of alarm, and, without calling out,

blindly lunged with his spear, and thus killed his sister-in-law. For

this he was sentenced by the Rajah to three years’ imprisonment with hard

labour.

I was informed that some Brunei Malays, who had grudges against people

who owed them money, or who would not pay any longer the repeated calls

which these piratical traders made for fictitious debts, stirred up

the Kenyahs of the Baram against the Iban (Sea Dayaks). They said the

Rajah had sent out Iban to kill people for the purpose stated above, and

they pointed to the Iban who worked gutta near their villages, knowing

full well that this had long been a grievance of the Kenyahs against

the Iban. The Brunei Malays reminded the Kenyahs of one or two cases of

assassination of their people by Iban, and even went below Kenyah houses

at night and thrust spears through the flooring in order to make their

report appear more real.

At last the Kenyahs were roused, and killed twelve Iban. The Sĕbops of

the Tinjar followed suit and murdered two Chinamen, and the Long Patas,

seeing the Kenyahs had commenced, took the opportunity to go over into

the Limbang, and, as I have already narrated, killed three innocent

Kadayans.

Trade was at a standstill, and everybody was miserable; but by being

continually on the move up and down the river, and by going familiarly

amongst the people, Hose with great difficulty managed to stop any

further spread of the scare, and he effectively proved to the natives

that the trouble did not arise from any action by the Government. Having

thoroughly disgusted everyone throughout the district, the Brunei Malays

bolted back to Brunei. By this time they owed a good deal of money in the

bazaar at Marudi, and could not get any more credit.

It was no wonder, then, with the recollection of this unsettled and

anxious time fresh in his memory that Hose was determined to stamp out

what might prove to be the commencement of a similar panic.

Long Semitan was next visited. The Malangs who live in this village

requested that a Bakatan, who lived all alone in a Chinaman’s store,

should be told to leave the village, as he had done no work for months

and stole on every opportunity. The people described him as a savage

brute, of whom they were afraid, and he constantly threatened to do harm

to people if they refused him food, or indeed anything that he asked for.

The man was sent for, and Hose inquired of him what he was doing there.

He said he was waiting for a month or two before going into the jungle to

look for gutta, and denied that he had stolen anything. Hose decided to

send him down to Marudi, and told him he must follow a party of Bakatans,

Iban, or other people when they went gutta hunting, or he must return by

the first steamer to his own country up the Rejang River. He strongly

objected to go, although the Malangs had provided him with a boat and

food. Eventually he was ejected by force, and all had the satisfaction

of seeing this worthless loafer paddle down stream. It was evident that

he had done nothing for his own living for months past, and the Chinaman

stated that Aban Abit turned him out of his house two months ago, when

he shifted to Long Semitan with the intention of sponging on the Malang

people. Most probably he had really stolen, but unfortunately there was

not sufficient evidence to convict him.

We reached Long Aiah Kechil on the evening of the 13th. The headman of

this Sĕbop village is termed Tamoing. On our arrival a great wailing was

set up, because very shortly after Hose’s last visit the chief of the

village had died, and his return reminded his followers of their loss;

but they were soon comforted. The Barawans and Balmali people in the

neighbourhood appear to have had several quarrels with regard to farming

lands. Taman Aping Buling, the Sĕbop _penghulu_, had done his best to

settle their differences, but there was still a considerable amount of

discontent. The Tinjar is rather crowded here, and Hose considers it

would be a good thing if some of the people moved further down the river.

The Sĕbops probably belong to the aboriginal population of Borneo. Those

we measured were distinctly narrow-headed, their cephalic index being

about 75·5. These people are constantly chaffed by other tribes about

their procrastinating habits. If a man has to go on a journey he gets

ready and packs his basket, and when just about to go down to the boat he

may suddenly turn round and say, “_Sagum_” (“to-morrow”), and then may go

on for a number of days until he is perforce obliged to go. The Kenyahs

are fond of telling the following fable to illustrate the dilatoriness of

the Sĕbops:—

A monkey and a frog who were chums were sitting together in the jungle

when it came on to rain very heavily. It rained all that day and night,

and the monkey, cold and wet, said to the frog, “This is wretched

weather; to-morrow let us beat out a bark cloth from one of those

kumut trees.” “All right,” said the frog, “this incessant rain is very

disagreeable.” When daylight appeared the rain ceased and the sun shone

brightly. The frog hopped on to a fallen stump and basked in the sun, and

the monkey climbed to the top of a tree and felt jolly again. Presently

the monkey called to the frog, “Oh, comrade, how about that bark cloth we

were going to beat out to-day; let’s start in and do it.” “Oh,” said the

frog, being unwilling to move from his pleasant spot, “I’m not cold any

longer.” As night came on the rain began to pour down once more, and the

friends, shivering with cold, agreed that to-morrow they must really get

the bark cloth. This happened time after time, until at last the monkey

became disgusted with the frog always putting off making the covering,

and he said it was useless to be friends with a person of so little

energy; so he cleared off and left his old friend. The frog still hoots

and howls when the rain comes down, but sits silent in the sunshine.

It had long been arranged by our good friend Hose that one of the special

features of this trip up the Tinjar was to be an ascent of Dulit, a

mountain whose name is well known to those interested in the birds of

Borneo, for reasons that I shall shortly narrate. As Hose had a good deal

of administrative work to do, he did not intend accompanying us, and,

indeed, it would have been no novelty to him, as he has ascended it four

times, and spent at least six weeks on or near the summit during those

visits.

We made an early start on the morning of February 14th from Long Aiah

Kechil, which is the nearest village to the mountain. As we were paddling

down the Tinjar, quietly enjoying the swift gliding between banks of rank

verdure, a joyous shout and noisy exclamations startled my reverie, and

quickly our crews paddled to the bank. To the uninitiated but a small

thing had happened, merely that an inconspicuous little bird had flown

across the river from right to left. But this was no commonplace bird;

it was an “isit,” one of the omen birds, who come as messengers from the

gods to warn mortals of impending danger, or to encourage them in what

they are undertaking.

This was fortunately a favourable omen, hence the delight with which

it was hailed, and immediately on seeing it flashing into the open our

boatmen called upon it by name, and asked it to “make everything clear

and sweep away all difficulties and obstacles from the path, and to make

the white men strong in the legs, so that they can climb up Dulit.”

In this manner is a bird “owned,” and on hearing the prayer the bird

assumes all responsibility and takes the petitioners under its protection.

Our friends landed on the steep bank of the river, and, cutting down some

undergrowth, whittled a couple of sticks, so that they had a frilled

appearance. A match was struck, and as soon as the shavings flamed, they

asked the fire to tell the bird to inform the gods of the message, which

was then repeated.

An unexpected episode of this sort is very refreshing. Here was

illustration of that religious spirit which is so universally distributed

among mankind. Our men were encouraged by the knowledge of divine

sanction, and, moreover, their petition was unaccompanied by sacrifice,

gifts, or promises; the human words were simply wafted godwards by the

smoke. It is easy to call this paganism, to sneer at it as superstition,

but such practices are essentially religious ceremonies, and of a refined

character too, which require no intermediary between the spiritual

powers and the ordinary individual.

We resumed our way, and shortly entered a small river which Hose has

named the Scott-Keltie River, in honour of the Secretary of the Royal

Geographical Society. In the muddy banks at its mouth are immense

quantities of leaves, which give the alluvium a very characteristic

laminated appearance. When consolidated and turned into rock, these beds

will form ligneous shales, or earthy coal beds, such as we constantly

find in various geological formations.

We landed a short distance up this stream, and ran our boat high and

dry in a creek. Hose then left us, and we started on our way; our party

consisted of Aris, my Malay “boy,” three Iban fortmen, three Naroms

(a branch of the Mĕlanaus), and four Sĕbops from Long Aiah Kechil,

McDougall, and myself.

At first we walked for an hour or so on the alluvial plain through

plantations, some of which were abandoned and overgrown; then we struck

the Scott-Keltie River, and waded some distance along its rocky and

gravelly bed; later we forded it several times, as our direct route

through the jungle cut across its sinuosities.

Our path for some distance lay through “New Jungle,” but as we ascended

we passed into “Old Jungle.” In the earlier part of the day there was a

good deal of rain; when this ceased there was an aftermath of continual

dripping off the trees, and all the undergrowth was reeking wet, but

this was of little moment, as we wore woollen garments, and the heat of

the atmosphere and the continual exercise prevented our getting a chill.

There was the usual profusion of fallen, rotting trees, over, under, and

along which we had to pass. The soil was the yellow, slippery clay that

is met with in so many places in Sarawak. This laterite, as it is called

by geologists, is widely spread over the tropics. When our feet slipped

we clutched at what was nearest to hand, sometimes it was a thorny

climber, or perhaps a rotten sapling that looked strong enough, but which

was as weak as touchwood, owing to its being permeated by corroding

fungi. Our caps and clothes were continually caught by the fine thorny

filaments of a species of ratan or by other prickly plants.

Several men always preceded me to cut down the lianas and other impeding

vegetation, and they also served to collect on their legs some of the

land leeches, which, reaching out from the leaves of low shrubs, seek

whom they may devour. At every halt we overhauled ourselves, and pulled

off these tough, elastic worms.

We soon reached a ridge-like spur of the mountain, on each side of which

we could hear a river rushing over its stony bed. This spur had very

steep sides owing to the cutting down of the streams, but it was covered

with deep vegetation, which acted as a kind of umbrella, and so prevented

the heavy rains from denuding it down to a low watershed between the two

streams.

About three o’clock we went a little way down to the Scott-Keltie River,

and followed it up as far as a fine waterfall, some three hundred or four

hundred feet in height. Here we built a hut, and after a bathe and a good

meal felt very comfortable, and all except myself passed a good night.

Fortunately there was no rain.

We awoke early next morning, but it was nearly eight o’clock before

we started, owing to the dilatoriness of the Sĕbops in taking up

their burdens. Before starting, and also on the previous evening, I

photographed the Scott-Keltie Falls. The upper part of the falls is

hidden by trees; the central portion consists of two large quadrangular

faces of rock, one above the other, with a combined height of a hundred

to a hundred and fifty feet. Below the fall proper is a steep declivity

of fallen blocks of rock, many of huge dimensions, over which the water

pours. Indeed, for a considerable distance down the steep river-bed is

a mass of boulders which practically forms a continuous cascade. The

vegetation about the falls was lovely, the masses of ordinary forest

trees being relieved by graceful palms and shrubs of varied foliage

(Frontispiece).

We ascended the mountain, leaving the falls on our right. It was very

steep walking, and at places we had practically vertical escarpments of

rock to negotiate, which were slippery owing to recent rains. The roots

of trees and the stems of creepers afforded secure grip and foothold,

but at a few places I was glad of the assistance of a ratan. We were in

a mist the whole day, and every now and again a rift gave us tantalising

glimpses of the outer world that far below us stretched out in all its

tropical luxuriance and beauty. Sometimes we saw a bit of the river,

and could just distinguish a village, when the view dissolved; then a

neighbouring wooded spur of the mountain would shape itself out of the

mist, only to disappear in the steamy atmosphere.

We pitched our camp about three o’clock, and made a long hut on the crest

of a steep ridge at an elevation of over four thousand feet. Fortunately

there was no rain all day, so our clothes were fairly dry, and we had no

rain during the night. Of course it was chilly, but it was only really

cold when the wind rose.

We got up on Thursday morning at 5.30. As soon as breakfast was finished,

McDougall and all the carriers except Aris and one Sĕbop, who had a sore

leg, continued the ascent. I was not very well, and did not feel equal to

the climb, so I spent a quiet day, writing, and letting the influences of

the jungle soak into me. It was a strange sensation perched high up on a

narrow ridge in a tropical jungle and screened from the world by a mist!

[Illustration: FIG. 35. MOUNT DULIT FROM LONG AIAH KECHIL]

McDougall returned about 3.30. He had ascended the highest point, which

Hose has since named Cambridge Peak, but had not obtained a satisfactory

view. He had some difficulty in climbing the uppermost escarpments. As

the cliffs were absolutely vertical, the natives made ladders which they

leaned against trees projecting from the cliff, and from one tree another

ladder was raised to a tree above it, till the summit was reached. Mount

Dulit is, in geographical terminology, a partially dissected block

mountain of Carboniferous sandstone, the beds of which dip in a southerly

direction.

There was rain early next morning, but it soon cleared for a short

time, and we started on our homeward journey. We had a scanty lunch at

the Scott-Keltie Falls. The water was now a thin stream, indeed we had

noticed a difference in the amount on the Wednesday morning as compared

with that which fell during our first evening there. We retraced our

steps as quickly as possible, but I took several photographs of the falls

and river. We got back to our boat about 3.30, and returned to Long Aiah

Kechil before dark.

I was particularly interested in Mount Dulit, as it has been a happy

hunting-ground for Hose during some years past. He was the first European

to ascend the mountain, and he has made natural-history collections on

it from top to base. Hose here discovered a high-altitude fauna, more

particularly among the birds, which, like that of the famous Kina Balu in

British North Borneo, has affinities with the fauna of the Himalayas.

The island of Borneo lies at one edge of an immense submarine bank, while

the islands of Java and Sumatra are situated at its southern and western

sides, and the island of Celebes and the archipelago that stretches from

Java to Ombasi are annexes. The hundred-fathom contour line embraces this

vast area, and indeed a considerable portion of the sea between Borneo

and Java on the one hand, and Siam and the Malay Peninsula on the other,

is only fifty fathoms deep. In other words, the trivial elevation of

this area to three hundred feet would connect Borneo and Java with the

mainland of Asia. This continental shelf may be termed the Malay shelf.

I have already pointed out that the physical features of Borneo prove

that there are indications that it has undergone changes of level in

recent geological times. The geological structure of the island shows

that it formed part of a continent, as it contains formations of the

Palæozoic, Mesozoic, and Cainozoic periods, and is thus very different

from what are termed oceanic islands, that is, islands composed solely

of recent volcanic rocks or built upon coral banks. As Wallace[6] points

out: “A subsidence of five hundred feet would allow the sea to fill the

great valleys of the Pontianak, Banjarmassing, and Coti rivers, almost to

the centre of the island, greatly reducing its extent, and causing it to

resemble in form the island of Celebes to the east of it.”

About a hundred and forty species of mammals have been discovered in

Borneo, and of these “more than three-fourths,” according to Wallace,

“are identical with those of the continent. Among these are two lemurs,

nine civets, five cats, five deer, the tapir, the elephant, the

rhinoceros, and many squirrels, an assemblage which could certainly only

have reached the country by land.”

The most interesting of those species peculiar to the island, that

is not found elsewhere, are the long-nosed monkey and the tailless

porcupine. These peculiar forms, which amount to something over thirty

in number, “do not, however, imply that the separation of the island

from the continent is of very ancient date, for the country is so vast,

and so much of the once connecting land is covered with water, that the

amount of speciality is hardly, if at all, greater than occurs in many

continental areas of equal extent and remoteness.” The same story is told

by the birds, although one would imagine that possessing power of flight

their distribution would be more uniform than it is. Wallace concludes

that the majority of forest birds are restricted by narrow watery

barriers to an even greater extent than mammals.

Mr. John Whitehead has made some valuable collections on Mount Kina

Balu, the highest mountain in Borneo. “The Chinese Widow” is an isolated

mountain mass which rises to a height of 13,698 feet; at an elevation

of about 4,000 feet Mr. Whitehead began to find traces of a new fauna

which linked that mountain with the Himalayas. Hose has made a similar

discovery on Mounts Dulit and Mulu, so that Dr. R. B. Sharpe has stated

(_Ibis_, 1894, p. 542): “it is evident that Mount Mulu belongs to the

same system of the Himalayan offshoots, such as Kina Balu, Dulit, and

Kalulong” (_The Geographical Journal_, i. 1893, p. 203).

Hose has stated that “the fauna of Mount Dulit resembles that of Kina

Balu in a great number of instances, but it is a curious fact that all

the species above 2,000 feet are found at a higher altitude on Kina Balu

than they are on Mount Dulit. This, I think, can be accounted for by

the fact that Mount Kina Balu has been cleared of all the old jungle,

and farmed by the natives to a height of about 2,000 feet, whilst on

the Dulit there are no traces of human habitation within miles of the

mountain [this is a slight exaggeration on Hose’s part]. I think it is

reasonable to suppose that many of the Kina Balu birds and animals, which

prefer to live in the old jungle, have been in this way driven to a

higher elevation” (_Proc. Zool. Soc._, 1889, p. 228).

In a paper on the mammals of Kina Balu, Mr. Oldfield Thomas points out

the affinity of the mammalian fauna of the mountain at great heights with

that of the Himalayan region. For example, a water-shrew (_Chimarrogale

himalayica_) had previously been recorded from Sikhim, Assam, and the

Katchin Hills in the north of Burmah. On the other hand, a certain

mouse (_Mus musschenbroecki_) was previously known from Celebes, and

its occurrence on Kina Balu suggests that other members of the Oriental

element in the peculiar Celebean fauna may also prove to have survived

on the tops of the Bornean mountains. Dr. R. B. Sharpe (_Ibis_, 1892, p.

430) also states that some of the Kina Balu species of birds have been

obtained in high Sumatra.

There is evidence that during the Miocene Age Java was at least three

thousand feet lower than it is now, and, as Wallace suggests, “such a

depression would probably extend to considerable parts of Sumatra and

Borneo, so as to reduce them all to a few small islands.

“At some later period a gradual elevation occurred which ultimately

united the whole of the islands with the continent. This may have

continued till the glacial period of the northern hemisphere, during the

severest part of which a few Himalayan species of birds and mammals may

have been driven southward, and have ranged over suitable portions of the

whole area.

“Java then became separated by subsidence, and these species were

imprisoned in the island, while those in the remaining part of the

Malayan area again migrated northward when the cold had passed away from

their former home,” with the exception of those forms which were cut off

on isolated mountain masses, where they survived in those places where

the conditions were not very dissimilar from those they were accustomed

to.

In other words, these more northern forms retreated from the deluge of

the typical Malayan fauna up the mountains. The lower mountains were

overwhelmed by the equatorial forests and the profusion of animals that

are adapted for that peculiar condition of existence. The lesser spurs

of the high mountains shared the same fate, but the struggle between the

rival faunas became less keen at altitudes of three or four thousand

feet. Here the temperature is cooler, and so the conditions of life

become less favourable for the tropical lowland fauna, and more so to the

relic-fauna of the northern mountains, and in consequence we have these

faunistic islands.

Somewhat later the Malay continental shelf was submerged, and Borneo and

Sumatra became isolated.

CHAPTER XXII

A TRIP INTO THE INTERIOR OF BORNEO—CONTINUED

We reached the Sĕbop village of Long Puah, up the Lobong affluent of the

Tinjar, on the evening of February 19th. Jangan, the headman, made us

comfortable in the large new house, which was not yet completed. Hose

had insisted on going to the new house, as the old one was dirty and was

falling to pieces. The first ceremony to be performed before the house

could be inhabited was the removing of the skulls from a temporary hut to

their new quarters. This was to take place early the following morning.

The business to be transacted that day required the presence of some

women, and no women may enter a new house until the skulls have been

transferred to it.

At daybreak a number of men perched themselves on the ridge pole of the

new house and chanted invocations to the omen birds. They shouted for

joy as a propitious hawk duly flew away to the right after soaring, for

unless the omen was favourable nothing could have been accomplished

that day. Immediately the omen bird had given permission for matters

to proceed, there was a great din of shouting and gong-beating for

the purpose of preventing the people from hearing the hawk in case it

should scream, for that would have been an unlucky omen, and would have

necessitated a delay. At various intervals rice was thrown out of the

house by the old men as offerings to the omen birds and prayers made to

the Supreme Deity and to the lesser gods. Hose and I also sacrificed some

tobacco and rice to the birds.

Several men, accoutred as if for the war-path, went to the temporary hut

where the skulls were lodged. Most of the men had on a war coat, which

is the skin of a goat or a clouded tiger-cat, decked with the white and

black tail feathers of the hornbill, which feathers, by the way, may be

worn only by men who have been on the war-path or who have killed a man.

Each had on a war cap, with the long tail feathers of another species

of hornbill, and they carried shields and spears. Standing outside the

hut the men chanted songs while an old man removed the basket of skulls

from the hut. It is considered a dangerous matter to meddle with skulls,

as they resent liberties taken with them, and may perhaps harm him who

handles them; this business was therefore relegated to an old man, as it

did not much matter if harm befell him during his short remaining span of

life.

The skulls were hoisted on to the verandah of the new house from the

outside—as they must never be taken up the ladder and through the

house—and immediately they were hauled on to a rafter. Then the women

trooped up; in this instance they came up the ladder that was erected at

the open end of the verandah, but according to rigid custom the women

should only enter a new house for the first time through temporary doors

made for the purpose in the back wall of the house, but as that part of

the house was only in skeleton this could not be done.

Jangan, the chief, was quite an elderly man, who only two months

previously had been presented by his wife with his first child. His old

wife had died a couple of years since, but before her death she had

instigated him to marry his present young and pretty wife.

After three years of wedded life a boy appeared, greatly to the joy and

satisfaction of Jangan and his wife. As yet the boy had no name, and

therefore was not considered to have any social status. Before receiving

its name a male child is always spoken of as a _ukat_ and a girl as

_itang_. The Iban call such children _anak ulat_, or “young grub.” Our

visit was a convenient opportunity for the naming ceremony, and Hose

arranged with Jangan that I should act as godfather. This necessitated

the presentation on my part of a gong, for that is the recognised present

on such occasions. I was able to get one from a Malay trader, who had a

small store close by, and we all made additional presents of cloth, to

which I added a looking-glass.

A pig with tied legs was brought up into the house. This was the offering

of the father, who, squatting beside it, singed a few hairs with a

firebrand, and put his hands on the pig’s flanks, praying meanwhile as

follows:—

“O spiritual pig [Balli Boin], tell Balli Penyalong [the god of

child-naming] the reason of our meeting here to-day. We are here to name

my child, and we request you to convey our message to Balli Penyalong.

It is our intention to do all in the best manner possible. We are only

a poor people, and cannot do things on this river on a large scale. We

trust you will approve of our performances, and we hope that blessings

will come to all present who meet as friends.

“We also request Balli Penyalong to let us know by the inspection of your

liver whether the name which we intend to give this child is suitable,

whether it will in any way be harmful to him, whether he will suffer

sickness, and whether he will come to any harm through false reports.

Tuan Resident is a witness, and all those who have done us the kindness

of being present.”

Then turning to us he continued: “You are visitors to this country, and

we hope that you will not be displeased with our simple customs, which

are the ways of our forefathers, and which I request Tuan Resident to

explain to you as I am unable to speak your language.”

Again addressing the pig, he said: “The name which we have chosen has

been proposed by the old man with the beard.[7] The first name, Utang

[“Good-luck”], is entirely suitable, as his grandfather bore the same

name. The second name, Haddon, is also a name given by the old man with

the beard; in fact it is his own name, and the event has been marked by

suitable presents. We hope that all this is well, and that the augury

given in the liver will be the true one.

“We also employ you, O pig, for another little ceremony, to which,

of course, you will have no objection. We have here two peoples, the

Lepuanans and the Punans, who have met one another for the first time

since quarrelling, and who take this opportunity to square all grievances

and to make _urip_.”

The pig was then killed in the usual manner by a spear plunged into its

neck. Scarce was the unfortunate animal dead before it was cut open and

the liver carefully extracted and handed round for inspection. It was on

the whole a pretty fair one, but one or two points were not particularly

favourable; all the good points were, however, explained by Hose as

belonging to the child, whereas the less favourable details he asserted

referred to the recent hostilities between the Lepuanans and Punans. As

Hose is recognised by the natives as an expert in liver divination, his

interpretation was accepted. The blood of the pig was smeared on the

breasts of numerous spectators, mainly on those of Lepuanans and Punans.

The second or “house” pig was brought and spoken over by an old man of

the house. The liver, fortunately, was more propitious than the preceding

one. Some of the blood of the pig was smeared on a parang blade and

dabbed on my bare chest by Jangan, who said, “You have seen our customs

and how we make _urip_! Do not misrepresent us when you go back to your

own country, and do not tell lies about us.” I then smeared blood from

the same parang blade on the breasts of many of the people round about.

The Punans next killed a sucking-pig to ratify their friendship with the

Lepuanans.

The final ceremony of naming Jangan’s boy consisted in killing a chicken.

Some of the blood of the fowl was rubbed on a parang blade, and, taking

the gory iron, I applied it to the arms of Utang Haddon, saying to him in

English that I wished him good luck, a long life, a wife, and plenty of

children.

Hose made a speech, and everyone shouted and stamped.

Finally, the _borak_ (rice spirit) was produced. Hose gave a drink to the

mother. I gave one to the father, and made a small speech, wishing him

more children and a long life for himself, his wife, and his children.

The wife gave Hose and me a drink, thanking us for what we had done.

Drinks then became general, and there was much noise and enjoyment.

Lepuanans and Punans gave _borak_ to each other; the ladies were not

forgotten, nor did they omit to offer some to us and to the other men.

Great hilarity was caused in succeeding, or failing, as the case might

be, in making a few Mohammedans who were present partake of a liquid that

was prohibited to them by the Prophet.

Everything was very human, and, alas! the after results were in a few

cases very “human” too. The older men and the wiser of the younger men

who had court business to transact later in the day partook but sparingly

of the seductive drink, others were carried away by the infectious

gaiety, and subsequently became sleepy or excited, according to their

respective idiosyncrasies. One man was fighting mad, and had to be held

down by several men. One somnolent youth was affectionately tended by

three young women, one of whom nursed his head on her lap. Next morning

several men had sore heads.

Some of the Punans complained of certain Malay traders interfering with

their women, and also that their debts to the traders never came to an

end. They had paid many times for the same thing, and still the traders

produced their books and stated that the debts were not settled. Hose

heard their grievances, and having summoned all the Malays that were

about, he thoroughly investigated the matter. He took away with him when

he left four Malays who admitted that they had interfered with some of

the wives of the Punans, and cautioned the others as to their future

behaviour.

Some Malohs who were staying in this village wished to marry Sĕbop girls,

but the Sĕbop chiefs did not want this, as the Malohs are untrustworthy

people, being suspected of divorcing their wives on some trivial pretext

when they wish to return to their own country. Hose thinks the Malohs

possibly originally came from Java; they and allied people inhabit

the southern part of Borneo, but parties of them have penetrated into

various places in the interior, and have begun to make their way down

some of the upper branches of the tributaries of the Baram River. They

are essentially a trading people, and hence have no special interest

in settling down; they are also great workers in brass, and so are of

great use to the other natives. The Sĕbop girls appeared to be anxious

to marry the five Malohs, and as the latter had done no harm in the

village and there was absolutely nothing against them, Hose found it

somewhat difficult to prevent the marriages, though he appreciated the

reasonableness of the objection of the chiefs. He thereupon thought of a

plan which would probably prevent the marriages, but at the same time if

the girls were anxious to marry they would be allowed to do so. Hose gave

the Malohs permission to marry the girls provided they will come down to

Claudetown with their wives and live at Tangjong Upah with those Iban who

have married Kayan and Kenyah women. If the girls are really fond of the

Malohs they will go; on the other hand, their relatives will do their

best to dissuade them.

Hose has found from past experience that it is a very unsatisfactory

arrangement for foreigners like the Iban or Malohs, or even more nearly

allied peoples like the Mĕlanaus, to marry into and live amongst up-river

tribes. Sooner or later trouble arises through a lack of solidarity

between the aliens and the original inhabitants, cliques are formed,

and the foreigner sides with the disaffected and the irresponsible men,

such as are to be found in every community. Whenever possible he solves

the difficulty by making the parties of these mixed marriages live

together far from the wife’s relations, and he has caused them to build

a long house at Tangjong Upah on the Baram, about eight miles south of

Claudetown, where, being isolated, they can work out their own salvation,

but at the same time they are within easy reach of headquarters. Hose can

thus see that nothing goes wrong, but nevertheless they are left, as in

other native villages, to regulate their internal affairs.

In the evening we were entertained with a dance by the Sĕbops. A man who

played a _kaluri_, or mouth organ, walked in front; he was followed by

two men, and these by ten women, all in single file. They walked with

their toes well out, and scraped the sole of the advancing foot along the

ground, the body being swung slightly from side to side. None of the men

were specially dressed up, except the third, who had on a war coat and

carried a shield; the Sĕbop shield is similar to the plain, red shield of

the Kayans, but broader and rather more clumsy.

Another movement consisted in advancing two steps with a striding motion,

scraping the sole along the ground and stamping when bringing it to rest.

A lesser backward movement was made for two steps, then forward as before.

A third consisted in walking slowly and placing one foot pointing

outwards somewhat to the side, the other foot is brought up to it, the

moving foot being stamped twice before coming to a halt. In a variant of

this the whole body is alternately turned to the right and to the left.

The regular double stamping forms a pleasing feature.

In a fourth dance a backward and forward “goose step” was made, touching

the ground with the heel, but without shifting the position. Then two

forward steps were taken. At one interval the body was turned to the

right, at the next to the left, and so on alternately.

In the dance that followed one step was taken at a time, bringing up

the other to it, with the sole dragging along the ground. The string of

dancers moved forward in a serpentine course.

In the “Bird Dance” there was only a slight movement forwards, the feet

tapped the ground, and the arms were moved in an angular manner up and

down and backwards and forwards.

The performance concluded with a war dance by a single man dressed in a

war coat decorated with hornbills’ feathers, and wearing a long-plumed

war cap. First he danced without his weapons, then he picked up his

shield, and later his parang. The dance consisted of a series of

indescribable crouching, jumping, squirming movements, in which the

approved positions or attitudes of actual warfare were blended with the

gyratory motions and posturing of more ordinary dancing. Crouching on the

ground with war coat trailing behind and brandishing his shield in front,

the warrior turned, or rather hopped like an amorous cock-sparrow, first

to one side and then to the other, as if warding off blows from an unseen

adversary; then as if perceiving an advantage he would leap to his feet

and take the initiative.

The numerous and rapid graceful movements, the finely harmonising colours

of the buff skin, the ruddled shield, the black and tawny clouded

tiger’s skin coat and red loin cloth, and the bold contrast of the white

and black feathers of the hornbill, lit up by blazing fire and yellow

flickering lamps against a dim background of eager semi-nude natives

and spaces of outer darkness, made a fascinating picture of savagery,

in which the beauty of dextrous movement with harmony and contrast of

colour were combined with the deeply seated human passion for combat and

bloodshed.

We returned down the Lobong and again ascended the narrowing Tinjar, and

negotiated several rapids, one of which Hose has named after Ray. On one

occasion we had to wait a couple of hours in a sheltered spot by the bank

of the river, as the water suddenly rose and the force of the current was

too strong for our crew to paddle against it.

The scenery was very pretty, the rushing water passing between low wooded

hills, which were occasionally more or less cleared for _padi_. A few

birds flew across the river, and numerous gorgeous butterflies flitted in

the sunlight, and vermilion-bodied dragon flies darted in quest of their

prey. Tropical vegetation is perhaps seen at its best along the banks of

rivers, as the trees and bushes have full light and air on one side, and

more variety is seen in foliage and tints; but here, as elsewhere in the

tropics, there is a general absence of brightly coloured or conspicuous

flowers.

Our next stopping-place was at Long Dapoi, a village that, as its name

implies, is situated where the Dapoi joins the Tinjar.

Taman Aping Buling, the chief of Long Dapoi and _penghulu_ of the Upper

Tinjar, and his people were in great distress owing to the recent loss

of their former fine house by fire. It was not known how the fire arose,

as it occurred when most of the people were away working on their _padi_

farms. The village house was exceedingly well built, and was the largest

house in all the Tinjar District. We saw the mournful rows of charred

piles, and there was no reason to doubt the statement of the people that

they had lost a large proportion of their worldly goods. They now occupy

makeshift huts until the harvest is gathered in, when they will rebuild.

They however found time to erect a comfortable little house for us to

stay in, and were very anxious that we should spend some time with them.

Hose had a good deal of business to do, and so on the following morning,

while we measured heads, he went into the _penghulu’s_ house and settled

a number of cases of various kinds. Amongst these was one assault case,

and complaints of diverse natives with regard to land grabbing. Further

information was also obtained respecting the _panyamun_ scare. It appears

that one Turing, a Sĕbop, came up river to Long Dapoi, about ten days

ago, and told Ajang, Taman Gau, and Suran, of this village, that he had

narrowly escaped being killed by _panyamun_ (or “robbers”), and had

he not been near the house he would certainly have lost his life. The

robbers were armed with spears and other weapons. When closely questioned

who the people resembled were, he said, “Kayans from the Baram”; and when

asked if he could recognise any of their faces, he said, “No, I was too

frightened.” Here, then, was evidence that could be dealt with as regards

the statement of Turing, as all three men were willing to swear that they

heard Turing make the above statement. It was necessary for these three

men and the _penghulu_ to meet Turing. Hose therefore arranged with the

_penghulu_ that either Turing should be called here, or, if they wished

it, they could accompany Hose when he went down river, as Turing was

living in the Lower Tinjar; something in the way of expenses would, of

course, be allowed should their statement prove correct. They were all

not only willing but anxious to go with us on our return. All the people

were glad to have this matter cleared up, and it appeared that there was

every chance of the guilty parties being discovered.

When Hose had finished his business we continued our journeying

by ascending the Dapoi, a beautiful affluent of the Tinjar. Along

the greater extent of its banks are native plantations of bananas,

sugar-cane, and other edible plants; the low hills between which the

river flows are largely deforested for the cultivation of _padi_. This

small, swift river is a favourite one with the natives, and is well

populated.

We reached our furthest point, at a distance of some two hundred miles

from Marudi, on the evening of February 24th, at Long Sulan, on the Dapoi

River. This is the largest village I had yet seen in this district;

probably about fifteen hundred men, women, and children live here, and

wherever I went I was followed about by swarms of children. The people

are Long Pokuns, and belong to the Kayan group.

In front of the main house and facing the river was a large wooden model

of a man holding a shield and waving a spear. This was a representation

of Balli Atap, whose function is to ward off all sickness and misfortune.

Beside him was a roughly carved image of Tegulan, who also keeps off

sickness from people, and by means of this image you can either curse a

man or prevent him from cursing you.

Behind these were two wooden effigies of the tiger (_linjau_), facing

different ways. The object of these figures is to impress the enemies of

the village with the idea that the inhabitants are as fierce as tigers,

and should not be meddled with. They were intended to serve the same

purpose as the sentiment in the chorus of the famous music-hall song—

“We don’t want to fight,

But by Jingo if we do!”

Near these symbols of ferocity was a framework on which were some

curiously shaped stones. Usually similar stones are placed on separate

posts outside houses, and as a rule these are simply rounded boulders

which the natives believe have the power of increasing in size with

age. In several places the natives tell stories about the stones being

originally very small when they were in another district, but since then

they have grown, and you can see how large they are now. A sacrificial

fire is lit near them, or even a flaming firebrand will suffice. Fowl’s

or pig’s blood is on ceremonial occasions smeared on the stones. This is

always done when it is necessary to consult the omen birds before making

a long journey or before setting out on the war-path. The fire conveys

to the god the messages and desires of the worshippers. I am not quite

clear what part the stones are supposed to play in this ceremony. I was

informed that the fire is entreated to tell the stones to inform the god

of the desires of the sacrificers, but I would rather not commit myself

to this statement until it has been verified.

[Illustration: FIG. 36. LONG SULAN]

Around the shrine of sacred stones were a number of frayed poles and

sticks (_isang_). These play an important part in all ceremonies

connected with the war-path and the consequent bringing home of heads.

They are also erected when skulls are shifted from one house to another.

Not far off were a couple of very tall poles (_kelebong_) decorated with

shavings, from the tapered end of which depended a long decorated rope,

to the free end of which was fastened a round block of wood. This is now

an innocent object; formerly (and not so very long ago either) it would

have been a human head or skull. A _kelebong_ is erected on the return

from the war-path, or, as on the present occasion, when a new house is

built.

[Illustration: FIG. 37. KEDAMAN AND KELEBONG AT LONG SULAN]

There were two groups of curious upright boards (_kedaman_), with

streamers attached. A rough or conventional face is usually carved or

painted at the end, and there project two slanting cross-boards that

serve as arms. Indeed a _kedaman_ looks at a distance for all the world

like our familiar scarecrows, but their object is to attract and not to

frighten away certain birds. On the upper part of the board were a number

of spikes or thin skewers, on which were stuck small pieces of pig or

fowl meat, to sacrificially feed the omen birds. Often, and that till

quite recently, the flesh of enemies was offered in a similar manner.

On our way to Long Sulan we had picked up a Sĕbop chief, named Tingang,

who had married the niece of Taman Balan Deng, the Long Pokun chief.

Tingang had requested Hose to assist him in a little family matter. He

had been married about four years, but his wife was still living with her

relations, who refused to let her live with her husband in his present

village, though she was not unwilling to live with him.

It appears that about a year after he was married it was arranged that

he should send people to fetch his wife, and he agreed to pay over

a sum of about a hundred dollars as dowry. He then returned home to

make arrangements for his wife’s arrival, and thinking that all was

satisfactorily arranged and that there would be no difficulty or any

necessity for much ceremony, he sent only a few of the low-class people

of his house to fetch the lady.

It is usual on an occasion of this kind for some friendly chief with a

number of influential people to go in a long boat decorated with flags,

and to bring home the bride with a good deal of ceremony; this always

takes place a year or so after marriage.

On the present occasion Tingang’s wife expected something of this kind,

and when the emissaries arrived in a small boat she was naturally much

annoyed; her relations absolutely refused to allow her to go in such a

manner, and coldness sprang up between husband and wife for about a year.

Tingang, however, made repeated visits to the house, and now considered

that sufficient time had elapsed, and wished to make another effort

to get his wife away from her relations; therefore he asked Hose to

assist him. Hose questioned him with regard to the _brian_, or dowry; he

admitted there were about fifty dollars to pay, which, however, was of

no importance, and he would pay it at once, his relative Tama Bulan and

others having promised to help him.

On his arrival at Long Sulan, Hose, in the presence of Langat, a cousin

of the lady, and son of Taman Balan Deng, said to Tingang that I asked

where his wife was. Upon his answering that she was living in this house,

Hose asked him, “Why haven’t you taken her down to your house? You have

been married a long time now.” To which he replied, “I want to.” Langat

retired, and no doubt repeated the conversation to the relatives. Shortly

afterwards Tingang’s wife appeared, and asked Hose to go into her room.

When there Hose asked her why she did not go and live with Tingang. Her

answer was she was waiting for him to build a proper house. Hose did not

let her know that he had heard the story of Tingang’s sending for her,

and no doubt she had no intention of telling him about it. As Tingang

has really got a very wretched sort of house, Hose took the opportunity

of his entering the room to tell him that really and truly it was hardly

a suitable house to expect his wife to come to, and she had very good

reason for not wishing to come if he did not choose to build a better

one. He admitted that his house was unsatisfactory, and said that he had

already settled on a new site, and the posts had been prepared. The wife

stroked Hose and said, “That’s right, make him build a good house, and

then I’ll go down.” Later on in the day Hose spoke to Taman Balan Deng

about it, and he said, “Oh yes, I have no objection; no doubt Tingang

will make better preparation this time than formerly.” Tingang had

probably learnt his lesson.

The reason for Tingang having a poor house is a curious one. His house,

which originally was a good one, had become old, and he determined the

next year to rebuild it on the same site, but an Iban, who had been

loafing about for a long time, and for whom his people had a strong

objection, cursed some people of the house with whom he had trading

transactions and killed a dog in the house. The killing of a dog in a

house is a serious matter for Kenyahs and Kayans, and necessitates the

breaking up of a whole house and rebuilding it elsewhere. This is the

reason for the delay in the house-building, together with hindrances due

to farming operations. Later on Hose brought this Iban down to Marudi,

and on the charge being proved against him he was ordered out of the

Baram district back to his own people. As he had some sixty dollars owing

to him at the village he had injured, Hose told him that he could not

recover the debt, which would thus stand over as compensation.

The following day some Madangs from the Silat River arrived with the news

that Saba Irang, the Madang chief, who had conveyed messages from Hose

to the important chiefs who live on the Upper Batang Kayan River, would

return shortly, and that his mission had been most successful. The Batang

Kayan is a large river in Dutch Borneo, inhabited by people allied to

the Madangs and Kenyahs of the Baram district, but there has been some

friction between some of the Batang Kayan and Baram tribes, and it was

to relieve this that Hose has entered into friendly relations with the

foreigners.

Saba Irang reported that the chiefs of the Batang Kayan were very anxious

to meet Hose, and would come very shortly to Marudi (Claudetown). It was

also stated that some thirty “doors” (families) of Leppu Agas from the

Batang Kayan had moved into the Silat, being anxious for a more settled

life. Knowing that the Madangs had recently acknowledged allegiance to

the Government of Sarawak, the Leppu Agas were anxious to follow their

example, as they are related to the Madangs. This was good news, as

Hose is getting more and more into touch with the people of the Batang

Kayan, who, of their own accord, move over into the head waters of the

Baram district, and by mixing with the Baram people quickly become loyal

subjects of the Sarawak Government.

These Kenyah races are always the best workers of jungle produce, and

quickly accumulate wealth whenever they find an outlet for their trade.

They now fully realise that if they kill, or are at enmity with, the

surrounding peoples their trade is at a deadlock. Traders are unwilling

to enter their villages, and the natives are also equally unwilling to

pass by the houses or territory of their enemies. The result is that

trade is one of the most important civilising influences among these

interior tribes. The necessity for salt, tobacco, and other luxuries is

felt very severely when the supply is cut off, and they know well that

when under a settled government they can have most of their requirements

within easy reach.

We measured fifteen people here, and visited various houses and collected

a few objects. Unfortunately Hose was ill in the afternoon with fever, in

addition to the sore throat and cough from which he had been suffering

for some time.

We returned the following day to Long Dapoi, and after Hose had received

$200 for fines collected by the _penghulu_, went down river, the

people who had charged Turing accompanying us. Our crew paddled hard

all day, and at night reached Long Semitan. Here we found Turing, and

when questioned he admitted that he had made the previously mentioned

statement to Ajang, Taman Gau, and Suran, but said that he had been told

about the _panyamun_ by a Barawan woman named Obong. Obong was living a

little further down the river in the house of Taman Ladang. Hose told

Taman Aping Buling that he must fetch Obong to-morrow, and that at Long

Tisam he would make further inquiries.

There was a Punan medicine-man in the Long Semitan house, and Hose

allowed himself to be operated on so that we might have an opportunity of

witnessing native medical practice. Hose, who was really ill, was lying

in an inner room, and the Punan was sitting on a gong Hose had given him

for his fee. Like other inland natives he wore only a _chawat_, or loin

cloth, his black hair hung down his back, and a string of blue beads

encircled his right wrist.

The room was dark, save for the flickering of a distant fire and the

glimmer of a small lamp. The weird jungle man sat close to Hose with his

hands to the side of his own head.

He asked Hose what was the matter. Hose replied he had fever every

alternate day. The medicine-man asked if Hose had a headache, and other

details of his illness.

The Punan then requested the spirits not to allow the sickness to be too

bad. He sang, or rather crooned, and occasionally breathed loudly, and

wiped his head and hair and smoked a cigarette. Next he took the blade of

a parang, and so held it that the shadow of the iron fell on Hose, and he

attentively regarded the shadow. Again he blew, sang and smoked, looked

at Hose, felt his abdomen, and stroked it, singing all the while and

calling on the sickness to come out.

Once or twice he put his hands together so as to form a tube, through

which he blew the abdomen. He next covered his own ears with his hands

and blew on the pit of Hose’s stomach. Again he stopped his ears and

sucked at Hose’s abdomen through a small tube made of the stem of the

wild ginger; he had previously scratched the place with his finger-nail,

and he sucked so hard as to make the skin rise in the tube. By a clumsy

sleight of hand he brought a small ball of wax, from which projected

a few hairs, out of the tube, this he pretended he had extracted from

Hose’s body. After having shown it round he carefully dropped the pellet

of wax and the tube through the floor.

On Hose saying he had a headache the medicine-man pricked Hose’s temples

with his nails and proceeded as before. By this time the operator was

perspiring profusely.

Again he sang and examined the parang. Next he paid attention to Hose’s

legs, and stroked them from the knee to the ankle; then he covered his

head with a cloth and bent over the legs, pricked the skin with his nails

and sucked hard through a tube as before, again producing a pellet of wax.

Once more he repeated the process on the leg, looked at the parang, sang,

blew on the leg, and stated that Hose would be well on the morrow. The

whole operation was again repeated.

After an interval the same operation recommenced. The man called on the

different spirits by name: “Who has done this? Has ⸺ done it? Has ⸺ done

it?” When he had exhausted the enumeration of the spirits he looked into

the parang and saw that Hose’s soul was better.

A fresh supply of ginger stems was placed in front of the doctor; he

then took a hat, put it on, and pretended to cry. Once more he put a

cloth over his head, which he scratched, and then looked through a tube

of ginger at Hose’s abdomen, and pricked it slightly above the navel.

He looked inside the tube, smelt and tasted it, and applied it to the

sternum. After sucking the tube for a short time he produced a small ball

of wax from the ginger tube, which he examined and showed round; then he

burst into song and dropped the wax and tube through the flooring.

The whole process was again repeated. After this the patient thought

he had had enough of it, so he proclaimed himself much better, and we

retired to rest.

The medicine-man was evidently very much in earnest, and he did not

at all like Hose murmuring to me from time to time what was going on,

nor was he too well pleased at my taking notes; but he performed his

part with due seriousness and thoroughness. We clearly saw the man’s

finger-nails were coated with the wax, and under cover of the cloth a

pellet could easily be transferred to the tube of ginger. There is in the

stem of the wild ginger an inner tube, which can readily be pushed up and

down the outer sheath. First the medicine-man pushed the inner tube down

and inserted the pellet of wax in the larger aperture, with his finger he

pushed up from below the inner tube, and this ejected the pellet from the

stem of the ginger. The whole contrivance was very simple, and could not

impose on any but the most credulous.

The following morning we reached Long Tisam at 10 a.m., and the reports

about the _panyamun_ scare were inquired into. The truth then came

out. Turing and Obong when brought face to face with the Lirong people

admitted the whole thing. Turing stated that he had been told by Obong

that she had seen robbers (_panyamun_) round about her house, and that

she was afraid, and begged him to come down river to live with her and to

protect her, and that he had lied to the Lirong people when he said he

had himself seen the robbers.

Obong was then questioned, and admitted that the whole thing was false

from beginning to end, and that she had started the report with the idea

of frightening Turing into coming down river, for she was anxious for

him to live with her, being a lorn lone widow. She had previously tried

to persuade him to come, and he had refused, as he was busy with the

harvest, so this had been her plan to bring about what she desired. She

was fined fifty dollars, or in default six months’ imprisonment, and

Turing was fined twenty-five dollars, or three months’ imprisonment. The

fines were at once paid by their relatives, and Taman Aping Buling and

others present who had been considerably inconvenienced by having had

to come down river received compensation, and everybody appeared to be

considerably pleased that disquieting rumours had been proved false and

the guilty scandal-mongers punished.

I have already mentioned that we stopped at the Sĕbop village of Long

Aiah Kechil (the mouth of the little Aiah River) on our journey up the

river. On looking at the charms (_siap_) that were, as is always the

case, hanging from the roof of the verandah, I immediately recognised a

polished stone implement, half hidden amongst the sacred odds and ends

and wholly encrusted with soot and dirt. I quietly drew Hose’s attention

to it, and, though at first somewhat sceptical as to its really being an

implement, he at once began to negotiate for it.

This proved to be a very difficult and delicate operation, for the

natives have an extreme regard for their charms as being ancient and

sacred objects that bring good luck to the house. Hose reminded Tama

Sorong, the headman, that he had never asked anything of him before, and

gentle persuasion and patience prevailed when combined with the offer of

a liberal gift. A chicken was next procured and waved over the _siap_,

and an invocation made in which Tama Sorong said that the spirits were

not to be angry and bring misfortune to the people, and that “Tuan

Resident” was wholly responsible. The head of the unfortunate bird was

pulled off, and the spurting blood sprinkled over the _siap_. Then only

did Hose become the proud possessor of his first stone implement.

This stone adze-head had been found long ago in the bed of the Upper

Tinjar River. It is a narrow, thin slab of fibrolite, 7¾ inches (196 mm.)

long, and 1⁹⁄₁₀ inch (48 mm.) broad, ground to an edge at one end. This

hard, tough stone is extremely suitable for making implements. But our

friends the natives did not recognise it as an implement; they called it

“Silun Baling Go,” that is, the toe-nail of Baling Go, the thunder god.

It was also supposed by them to have fallen from the sky.

[Illustration: FIG. 38. STONE IMPLEMENTS FROM SARAWAK]

At every house we stopped at subsequently Hose made inquiries for Baling

Go’s toe-nails, and though he heard of the existence of other specimens,

he did not come across any till we came to Long Tisam on our way back,

where he obtained from Aban Abit a very typical adze-head (Fig. 38, B),

which was made from a rather soft stone; it was 131 mm. in length.

These Seping Kenyahs brought it with them when they came from the Pliran

River, a branch of the Upper Rejang. It was said to have been obtained in

the Madang district, and to have been found in or near the Tiut River.

The man who found it, several generations ago, said he had a dream that

the good spirits (_hantus_) were going to give him a valuable present,

and so he went to the river, and there he found this stone. On its being

pointed out to them the people recognised that it had been used as an

_asai_ or adze-head.

The following night we stopped on our way down stream at the Lelak

village of Long Tru, and another implement was discovered (Fig. 38, C).

This is smaller (81 mm. long) and thicker than the others, one surface is

smooth and slightly curved, the other is highly convex, somewhat rough,

but the cutting end is ground to a sharp edge.

It was stated to have been found, with several others, three generations

ago in the bed of the Lelak Lake by an old woman. One of the other

specimens is said to have been exactly like the blade of a _biliong_,

or axe. Unfortunately the other specimens were in a house that was

accidentally burnt, and they were consequently lost, or at all events

they were not carried away, as it is against custom to remove into a

new house objects that have been burnt in this way. This implement is

believed to be the front tooth of the lower jaw of Baling Go.

There was great difficulty in obtaining this specimen, but the old man

who owned it brightened up considerably when Hose offered him a black

silk _chawat_ (loin cloth) to die in. It is the ambition of up-river

natives to die respectably, and a man never feels easy at the thought of

death until he has laid by an expensive _chawat_ in which he can take his

departure with becoming credit.

We also saw hanging up with the _siap_ five abnormally curved boars’

tusks, some crystals, and other objects, including one or two stone

hooks. The latter were evidently mainly, if not entirely, artificially

shaped; it was difficult to imagine their use, as it seemed impossible

that they could ever have been employed as fish-hooks.

I was naturally very anxious to obtain a couple of these hooks, or

one and a boar’s tusk; the latter was precisely like the artificially

deformed boars’ tusks that are such valuable objects in Fiji and New

Guinea, and of which I had recently collected several in Torres Straits.

Insuperable difficulties were made; the several objects belonged to

different people, and some of these were absent. I then had to play my

trump card by asking Hose to offer a crystal sphere that I always carried

with me for emergencies. When I handed the glass ball round it was

fondled and passed from one to another; the old men especially admired

it immensely, and exhibited no surprise when they were informed by Hose

that it was Baling Go’s eyeball! One rhumous-eyed old gentleman directly

it was passed to him rubbed his bleared eyes with it. It was evident that

here was something they thoroughly appreciated. Hose told the men that I

valued this very highly, but he would ask me to part with it as a favour,

and that they were to give him two hooks or a hook and a boar’s tusk

for it. Nothing, however, could then be decided, as the owners of the

hooks had first to be consulted and squared. In order to show how keen

a man Hose is when on the scent for anything new, I cannot refrain from

mentioning the fact that he was weakened from fever, and suffering from a

bad sore throat, and yet he commenced these tedious negotiations at 4.30

a.m.

A few days after our return to Claudetown we heard that one hook would

be given for the glass ball. Although the price was relatively heavy,

I agreed, as in trading one has usually to pay disproportionately for

the first specimen, or even for the first few, after then the price

falls considerably. When the barter was concluded we were informed that

its origin was unknown, but the hook had been in the family for three

generations, and that it was used in the ceremony that takes place before

going on the war-path, and that it assists in obtaining another head

where one had been previously obtained. In fact, it had the same function

as the wooden hooks associated with skulls in the verandahs of the

houses, the hook acts symbolically and by telepathy hooks in other heads.

[Illustration: FIG. 39. MAGICAL STONE HOOK

About three-fourths natural size]

Another type of implement of which Hose has obtained specimens is

cylindrical and more or less oval in section, with an oblique polished

face at one end, which may be either flat or more or less concave (Fig.

38, D, is 173 mm. in length). They were obtained from the Sĕbops and

Muriks, who do not know their use, nor have they a name for them; like

the old adze-heads, they were hung up along with other _siap_. My

impression is they were formerly used for extracting the pith from the

sago palm.

Stone implements have long been known from the Malay Peninsula and from

most of the islands of the Malay Archipelago, including Borneo. Mr. A.

Hart Everett found one “embedded at the bottom of a bed of river gravel

exposed in a section on the left bank of the Upper Sarawak River. Sir

Charles Lyell pronounced it to be of Neolithic type.” This specimen is

now in the Pitt Rivers Museum at Oxford.

The only specimen I had previously seen was an adze-head which was

brought in to Mr. Shelford by one of his Dayak hunters one day when I

happened to be working in the Sarawak Museum; it is now in that museum.

Hose has generously given all the implements he collected to the Museum

of Archæology and Ethnology at Cambridge.

There is nothing unusual in the sacredness of these stone implements.

Nearly all over the world, wherever stone has been replaced by metal, the

same reverence for the ancient objects is found, and not infrequently

magical properties are ascribed to them. It is, however, rather strange

that they are almost universally regarded as having fallen from the

sky and usually as actual thunderbolts; a couple of examples of this

belief will suffice out of the numbers that could be cited. Messrs. C.

H. Read and O. M. Dalton, in their recently published sumptuous work on

the _Antiquities from the City of Benin and from other parts of West

Africa in the British Museum_, say, “Shango has many attributes, but is

especially the god of thunder and lightning, in which capacity he is

known as Jakuta, the stone-thrower; all aerolites are venerated as having

been thrown by him. In some of the castings the king is represented as

holding a ground stone axe-head in his hand, and reasoning on the analogy

of similar beliefs all over the world, we can safely argue that this was

a symbol of Shango. Such axes are venerated in various parts of Yoruba;

they are still _ara oko_, and are frequently daubed with palm oil and

blood” (p. 11).

But there is no need to go to Africa for superstitious beliefs concerning

stone implements. In Europe there are many records that peasants regard

them as thunderbolts, and ascribe magical qualities to them. In Denmark

prehistoric stone hatchets or arrow-heads are termed “thunder stones”

or “lightning stones”; they are often put by the side of the fireplace,

in the thatch of the roof, over or under the door, and are regarded as

charms that have supernatural power, the most important of which is

protection from fire. Professor T. Wilson, in his address as president

to the anthropological section of the American Association for the

Advancement of Science, stated that he knew a man in Denmark who said he

had seen a hatchet come down from heaven in a flash of lightning, that

it struck the field adjoining his house, and that he went over to it and

found the stone still hot. On no consideration would he part with it.

A similar belief occurs in our own country, the so-called celts are

usually believed to be “thunderbolts,” and stone arrow-heads are “fairy

darts.” I have seen stone implements in the north of Ireland which were

used a year or two ago as a charm for curing cattle.

We are not in a position to criticise the Borneans when they regard

similar implements as the teeth and toe-nails of the Thunder God, or as a

tooth of Balli Taun, the God of Harvest, or the nail of the little toe of

the huge river dragon Balungan.

On our next journey up the Baram, Hose obtained at Long Tamala, a Murik

village, two stone implements and a brass gouge-like implement. There

was great difficulty in getting them, and Bulieng, the owner, would not

part with any other _siap_. I particularly wanted some hook-like stones,

but these he could by no means be persuaded to sell, as he gave us to

understand that they, as it were, hooked his soul to his body, and thus

prevented the spiritual portion of him from becoming detached from the

material. Another reason was that these charms had been handed down to

him from his forefathers.

These three implements were contained in a basket which had not been

opened for forty or fifty years, and on the present occasion the natives

would not take it down from the beam where it was suspended, much less

would they open it, but requested us to do so. Previously to the basket

being touched by us, all the women and children were ordered out of the

house, lest any evil should befall them. I climbed up a notched pole,

which serves as a ladder in these parts, and unfastened the basket

and handed it down to Hose. It contained, in addition to the three

implements, three water-worn stone hooks, which appeared to me to be

entirely of natural formation, two water-worn ferruginous sandstone

pebbles, somewhat resembling phalanges in form, and which we were assured

were human finger-bones, two irregularly shaped stones with natural

perforations, and one spherical pebble about an inch and a quarter in

diameter.

After the implements had been sold and taken out of the house, it was

necessary to inform the spirits what had happened, and so a small chicken

was killed by having its head torn off, and Hose, holding Bulieng’s hand,

took the bleeding bird and anointed the basket which contained the other

stones and the neighbouring skulls with the blood; while the headman told

the spirits no sickness or harm were to come to the house, as Hose was

responsible for the removal, and the implements had been presented to

him. As a matter of fact, Bulieng had just sold them for a brass gong;

but he had no objection to deceive the spirits in this matter, their

feelings would be less hurt by a donation than by a sale. It would be a

pity to vex anyone when it can be avoided, especially a spirit who has

various means at his command for retaliation. As Hose held the chicken,

no iron was demanded, since the iron is the fee of him who performs this

part of the ceremony.

When all had been duly accomplished the women and children returned, and

Hose distributed tobacco as largess; but none of the women would take

any, as Hose had previously touched the sacred charms, although he had

subsequently taken the precaution to wash his hands in public.

On a subsequent occasion Bulieng, who accompanied us on our voyage,

informed us that he could not have been cured of sickness by any

medicine-man should he have parted with the hooks, and he would certainly

have been struck down by sickness. Even now, he said, it would be

necessary for him to go through a ceremony when he returned home. The

medicine-man (_dayong_) would examine him to discover if anything out

of the common had happened to his soul. If all is well with him, he

will merely have to kill another fowl and smear the blood on the basket

containing the remaining stones, explaining to them that he is pleased

that everything has gone on all right, and that he will sit in his house

for a whole day on their account, and also on account of his own soul.

He positively declared that the night after he had sold the implements

he dreamt he was sharing something of great importance with some male

person, an augury which he did not consider unfavourable.

It is not known where these implements were found. Bulieng inherited them

from his father, who brought them with him when he came from Long Sibatu,

near the source of the Baram River.

A TRIP UP THE PATA

I had another up-river trip with Hose in order to visit Tama Bulan, the

greatest of the Kenyahs, and one of the two or three inland chiefs who

have been sworn members of the General Council of Sarawak. Tama Bulan

lives on the Pata, a beautiful affluent of the Baram, whose swift course

is often complicated with rapids, some of which are very formidable.

Unfortunately this trip, which promised to be so interesting, was marred

for me by a bout of fever, and so I could not fully avail myself of the

opportunities it afforded of studying this important and well-organised

tribe of the Kenyahs.

Outside Tama Bulan’s large village are the usual groups of carved posts,

representing deities who have to be sacrificed to on important or

critical occasions, and I took a photograph (Plate XXIX., A) of one group

of carved and painted figures which were close to some sacred stones

(_batu tulor_). I have previously alluded to the fact that stones perched

on posts are generally to be found outside each house, and they are at

times sprinkled with the blood of fowls.

Tama Bulan received us with friendly dignity, and his womenfolk soon

prepared a palatable repast for us of rice and other native food served

in banana leaves and laid out on the mats of the living-room, and we

reclined on the floor and supped with princes.

Tama Bulan’s house is about three hundred yards in length, and is

supported some fifteen feet from the ground on huge posts of bilian,

or “iron-wood,” some of which are a foot and a half in diameter. The

structure of the house is similar in general arrangement to those I have

previously described, but it is famous for the size of the bilian planks

with which it is floored, some of them being as much as five feet broad.

The young ladies of Tama Bulan’s house proved to be the friendliest and

jolliest damsels I have met in all my travels. They were not shy, but sat

with us after the meal and made themselves agreeable. I quite envied Hose

his facility of chatting to them, but the girls tried to make me feel at

home by pulling my fingers to make them crack—this appears to be a sort

of delicate attention to pay to a friend. I could not help comparing the

behaviour of these girls with that of a merry party of frank, wholesome

girls in an English country-house. The non-essentials were as different

as possible—features, dress, ornaments, and habits—but there was the same

_camaraderie_ and good breeding.

Bulan (Plate XXIX., C), whose name signifies “the Moon,” was by no means

so good-looking as several of her companions, and though dignified and

friendly, she was not quite so genial. I do not think this was entirely

due to her being weighed down by the fact of her being the eldest child

of Tama Bulan; perhaps her domestic troubles had somewhat sobered her. I

forget the details, but it was something like this. She had been married,

or at least on the point of being married, three times. Once the omen

birds foreshadowed such evil fortune that it would have been flying in

the face of Providence to proceed further; and once, I think it was

immediately after her marriage, a fire broke out in the kitchen, and

this was regarded as an indication that the marriage should be null and

void. The future writer of Bornean love stories will not have far to seek

for obstacles in the path of true love. As Bulan was the firstborn, her

father, following the custom of the country, changed his own name to Tama

Bulan, “the father of Bulan.”

The day after our arrival at the village I went with Hose a short

distance up the Pata to visit the Leppu Lutong village. On our way we

passed a lovely spot where two streams met, which has an historical

interest. It was in the early days of Hose’s administration, before

he had fully acquired that influence over Tama Bulan which is now so

marked, and which constitutes such a bulwark for the stability of the

Rajah’s government among the interior tribes of this district. It is

a long story, but the gist of it is that Tama Bulan, with a host of

Kenyahs who were spoiling for a fight, had decided to go on the war-path

without permission. If they had done so it would have indicated to the

neighbouring tribes that the Sarawak Government could be flouted; so

Hose put a brave face on it and, with a few followers, hurried to meet

Tama Bulan and his warriors. They met at this rapid. Hose stood firm,

and for a short time a game of bluff was played, at which the white man

won, and Tama Bulan gave in; but it was a touch and go, and might very

well have ended in a catastrophe. Unfortunately I was not well enough to

photograph the spot, which I subsequently regretted, as the following

year, when he published his new map of the Baram district, Hose named

this rapid “Fanny Rapid,” in honour of my wife.

[Illustration: PLATE XXIX

SHRINE OUTSIDE TAMA BULAN’S HOUSE

BULAN

SABA IRANG, THE HEAD CHIEF OF THE MADANGS]

We have already seen that a Resident who takes a sympathetic interest

in his people is consulted about their private affairs, and in time he

may possess an intimate knowledge of the domestic life of large numbers

of natives. An example of the fatherly interest that Hose takes in his

people came under my notice on the occasion of this visit to Tama Bulan.

Ballan, a pleasant young man about nineteen or twenty years of age, son

of a Long Belukan Kenyah chief, spoke in a confidential tone to Hose,

saying he had something to tell him. Ballan explained that he very much

wanted to marry Laan, a nice-looking girl of about seventeen years of

age, who was a niece of Tama Bulan’s. He stated that the girl was willing

to be married, and anxious for him to inform Tama Bulan and her father to

that effect, but he was a little nervous of doing so.

As a matter of fact, a good number of youths in a similar predicament

come to Hose to ask him to help them, and as he is constantly discussing

such matters with Tama Bulan and other chiefs he is in a position to put

in a word in season and smooth over any difficulties that may arise, for

the course of true love does not always run smoothly even in Borneo. In

the present instance not only had the girl’s father to be approached, but

it was necessary that consent should be given by the great chief Tama

Bulan, who was also her uncle.

Hose questioned Ballan whether his was a genuine love affair, and the

latter emphatically stated that the girl was quite willing. Hose then

asked if he had slept in her room; and having been assured that he had

done so, he further inquired if they had slept on the same pillow,

and he said they had. Among these people it is customary for a young

man to visit the sleeping-chamber of his sweetheart and sit and talk

for several hours after the family has retired to rest. When friendly

relations are well established the lover may enter within the mosquito

curtains and sleep by the side of his beloved; but the sharing of the

pillow is only accorded to him who has been accepted as a prospective

husband. The young people behave with strict propriety, and I understand

that there is little to object to in this custom, which may have resulted

from the public life which everyone leads.

At all events we cannot criticise these good people very harshly, as the

very similar practice of “bundling” was in vogue until recently in Wales,

as Brand informs us in his _Antiquities_ (vol. ii. p. 98): “In Wales

there is a custom called ‘bundling,’ in which the betrothed parties go to

bed in their clothes.”

To return to my friend Ballan, Hose said he did not care to mention the

matter to the relatives unless Ballan was in earnest, and that now he

was assured of this he thought it was a very good and entirely suitable

match, and he would be very pleased to help it on by speaking to Tama

Bulan; if he waited on the verandah he would let him know the result.

Tama Bulan was in his room, and on entering Hose beckoned to him that

he had something to say privately. Tama Bulan got up and went to one

side and remarked, “Tuan?” “Oh, it’s nothing important. Some of these

young people want to get married, and as usual have asked me to put it

through for them.” “Who is it?” “Oh, Ballan wants to marry Laan, and

they are afraid to tell you.” “Oh yes, that’s a good match; we are all

connections. I’ll go and tell the father. You wait here a bit.”

Tama Bulan then went to consult Laan’s father, Aban Tingan, who no doubt

had seen what had been going on for the last few days, but he had held

his peace. In a few minutes Tama Bulan returned. “Oh yes, Aban Tingan is

agreeable; that’s all right.” Hose then put in a word for Ballan. “Will

there be any _brian_ [_i.e._ bride-price]?” “Oh no; we are all more or

less related. Ballan is my relative; there will be nothing very much.

There will be the usual _adat_ [custom] of expenses for a feast in which

we will all join; then there is the custom of depositing a _tarwak_ at

the time of proposal.” Hose then said he would be responsible for the

_tarwak_, for he had previously taken an interest in Ballan, and during

the earlier part of my stay at Claudetown Ballan had visited him.

Hose then went into the verandah and found Ballan anxiously awaiting the

result of the interview. Hose told him that Tama Bulan and Aban Tingan

were agreeable. Ballan then said that according to custom he would have

to find a _tarwak_. Hose reassured him by the information that he had

already arranged this for him.

Aban Tingan’s house, or rather suite of rooms, is next to Tama Bulan’s,

and that evening, when Hose retired into one of Tama Bulan’s rooms, he

heard the young people chatting in the adjoining room. Hose called out

to Ballan to come round and talk to him; for a long time he was very

unwilling, which was not unnatural, considering the circumstances. Having

secured him Hose forced the conversation, so that Ballan sent round for

his mat, and made preparations as if he were going to sleep in the same

room as his tiresome benefactor. In the meantime the lady, weary of

waiting, began to very softly play the usual lovers’ tune on the _kaluri_.

Hose, of course, understood what the girl was playing, and chaffed poor

Ballan about it; then, taking pity on the young people, he pretended to

go to sleep, and when Ballan thought he was soundly off, he rolled up his

mat and silently bolted. Next morning Laan came out to shake hands as

Hose was going away, and told him that Ballan had told her all that he

had done for them.

The subsequent history of this love affair was not quite such plain

sailing. Preparations had been made for the marriage, and two days before

the happy event a child, who was strolling in the farm, was killed by a

tree falling on it. This incident was unlucky, and it was necessary for

Ballan to return home and wait awhile.

Later they made a second attempt to get married, but it was first

necessary to consult the omen birds. They did so, and one old man in the

crowd said he saw a very bad omen. Ballan said to Taman Bulan he wanted

to be married, the white man did not bother about omens, and why should

he? A modern vernacular translation of one of his remarks to the great

chief was that he wanted to “chuck those blooming birds.”

It is really very doubtful how far Tama Bulan believes in these things,

but he is a statesman, and consequently always politic, so he replied

to Ballan, “_You_ may not mind, but your conduct may affect the whole

family.” Ballan had again to return home unmarried.

Subsequently Hose invited Ballan to come and stay for a month with him.

Tama Bulan happened to come down during that visit, and Ballan asked the

Resident to talk to Tama Bulan about his marriage. He did so, and Tama

Bulan said he would arrange it after the next harvest.

CHAPTER XXIII

NOTES ON THE OMEN ANIMALS OF SARAWAK

The cult of the omen animals is of such importance in the daily life of

most of the tribes of Borneo that it is desirable that more attention

should be paid to it by those who have the opportunity of studying it at

first hand.

The Ven. Archdeacon J. Perham has given a full account of the Sea Dayak

religion in the Journal of the Straits Branch of the Royal Asiatic

Society (Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 8), which has been reprinted by Ling

Roth in his book, _The Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo_. Mr.

Ling Roth has also compiled some other scattered references on omens

(vol. i. pp. 221-31). Although the following notes are very imperfect,

they contain some new facts derived from Hose, and also, thanks to

information derived from Hose, I am able for the first time to give a

fairly complete list of the omen animals of Sarawak with their scientific

names.

I have taken the liberty of abstracting the following account of the way

in which birds are “used,” as the Iban (Sea Dayak) say, from Archdeacon

Perham’s most valuable papers, as it is the best description known to me

of what is of daily occurrence in Borneo.

“The yearly rice-farming is a matter of much ceremony as well as of

labour with the Dayaks, and must be inaugurated with proper omens. Some

man who is successful with his _padi_ will be the augur, and undertake

to obtain omens for a certain area of land, which others besides himself

will farm. Some time before the Pleiades are sufficiently high above the

horizon to warrant the clearing the grounds of jungle or grass, the man

sets about his work. He will have to hear the _nendak_ (_Cittocincla

suavis_) on the left, the _katupong_ (_Sasia abnormis_) on the left, the

_burong malam_ (a locust) and the _beragai_ (_Harpactes duvauceli_) on

the left, and in the order I have written them. As soon as he has heard

the _nendak_ he will break off a twig of anything near, and take it home

and put it in a safe place. But it may happen that some other omen bird,

or creature, is the first to make itself heard or seen; and in that case

the day’s proceeding is vitiated. He must give the matter up, return,

and try his chance another day; and thus sometimes three or four days

are gone before he has obtained his first omen. When he has heard the

_nendak_, he will then go to listen for the _katupong_ and the rest, but

with the same liability to delays; and it may possibly require a month to

obtain all those augural predictions which are to give them confidence in

the result of their labours. The augur has now the same number of twigs

and sticks as birds he has heard, and he takes these to the land selected

for farming, and puts them in the ground, says a short form of address to

the birds and Pulang Gana (the tutelary deity of the soil, and the spirit

presiding over the whole work of rice-farming), cuts a little grass or

jungle, and returns. The magic virtue of the birds has been conveyed to

the land.

“For house-building, the same birds are to be obtained, and in the same

way. But for a war expedition birds on the right hand are required,

except the _nendak_, which, if it make a certain peculiar call, can be

admitted on the left.

“These birds can be bad omens as well as good. If heard on the wrong

side, if in wrong order, if the note or call be the wrong kind, the

matter in hand must be postponed or abandoned altogether; unless a

conjunction of subsequent good omens occur, which, in the judgment of

old experts, can overbear the preceding bad ones. Hence, in practice,

this birding becomes a most involved matter, because the birds will not

allow themselves to be heard in a straightforward orthodox succession.

After all it is only a balance of probabilities, for it is seldom that

Dayak patience is equal to waiting till the omens occur according to the

standard theory.