of a native’s house on the Tinjar River, chatting and gossiping with my
host and his household, when I noticed in the group a man whose face was
very familiar to me and closely associated with some incident or other
in the year before; I looked at him for a minute, and then asked if he
were not the man who had so effectively helped us when we were unable to
find men to paddle our canoe down the river from the house of deceitful
old Laki La. He modestly replied that he was one of the men; whereupon
I reiterated my gratitude to him; but, unfortunately, his name, once so
familiar to me, had quite escaped my memory, and, apologizing for my
forgetfulness, I asked him what it was. His countenance fell; he looked
much embarrassed for a moment, and then nudging the man sitting next
to him looked from him to me. His neighbor took the hint, and at once
told me the name, which was one I had never before heard; I concluded,
therefore, that either he or I had mistaken the incident. A little while
afterward I happened to meet the man again when he was alone, and being
so sure in my recollection of his face, asked him if that were really
his name which had been told to me; he assured me that it was, but even
then I doubted, and insisted that it was not the name by which I had
known him a year ago. ‘You are quite right, Tuan,’ he replied, ‘but
since you were here I have been exceedingly sick—so sick that the evil
Spirits were trying to make my soul wander away from my body [and here
his voice dropped to a whisper]; so I changed my name; now they will not
know where to find me.’ He looked furtively on all sides, as if afraid
that the trick would be overheard by the Spirits; it was only after
much persuasion and repeated assurances that the Spirits could never
harm him through a white man that I induced him to tell me his former
name, which he did in a timid whisper close to my ear. This incident,
trifling in itself, is valuable, I think, in that it adds another to the
list of instances recorded in Dr. J. G. Frazer’s valuable _The Golden
Bough_ (vol. i., pp. 404-420), where the utterance of a personal name is
fraught with an unknown and deadly peril. To speculate on the source of
this mysterious dread is tempting enough,—especially since in theorizing
about the beliefs prevalent in the youth of the world there is no one
who can contradict. As to its antiquity there can be no doubt; and that
it is well nigh universal, the records of folk-lore are full of proof.
It is sufficient here and now to note its existence among the Kayans and
Kenyahs in the interior of Borneo, where, moreover, this unwillingness
to utter the name of a person extends to inanimate objects. When they
have planned a Tuba fishing, nothing will induce them to utter the word
for fish. A Kayan, Kenyah, or Punan never thinks of saying that he is
going to search for camphor, but that he is going to look for the ‘thing
that smells,’ and even this he says in a whisper, for fear the camphor
crystals deep in their secret, native home might hear and elude him after
he had all the trouble of chopping down the tree.
[Illustration: TAMA BULAN, THE MOST INTELLIGENT CHIEF IN THE BARAM
DISTRICT.
HE IS OF THE KENYAH TRIBE, AND LIVES ON THE PATA RIVER, ABOUT TWO HUNDRED
MILES FROM THE COAST. THE NAME TAMA BULAN MEANS ‘FATHER OF MOON,’ AND WAS
ASSUMED AFTER THE BIRTH OF HIS FIRST CHILD, A DAUGHTER, NAMED ‘BULAN.’
HIS PREVIOUS NAME WAS WANG.]
These superstitions connected with the utterance of a name are deeply
rooted among the Borneans, but the interdiction on the speaking of names
of relatives is not so extended as it is among some other primitive
people, notably the Kaffir women of South Africa, who may not speak a
word, or even a word containing a syllable, resembling their husband’s
name or the names of any of his male relatives, but must use paraphrases
which do not contain the interdicted syllables.[3] Among the Kayans and
Kenyahs, as far as I know, the restriction on the utterance of names of
relatives extends only to the fathers-in-law of a married couple, whose
names must not be mentioned by either the husband or the wife. Again,
it is most ill-omened for a son to mention his dead father’s name; and,
of course, neither man nor woman dare pronounce their own name; this is
a downright courting of all conceivable disasters and diseases. It is
quite possible that this unwillingness to mention their own name leads
them to adopt a substitution, which for every-day use sufficiently
designates them. Thus, when a child is born the parents substitute for
their own names the name of the child prefixed by ‘Tama,’—_father of_,—or
‘Tina,’—_mother of_,—a highly ingenious device; the combination thus
formed is really no name at all; it is merely a designation. On the
same principle, when wife or husband dies the survivor is designated as
‘Aban,’—_widower_,—or ‘Bállo,’—_widow_,—of such a one. The simple-hearted
folk evidently believe the Spirits to be the very strictest of
constructionists, and that they pay no attention to anything but the name
itself, pure and uncombined; to a substitution they pay no heed.
One might suppose that under such circumstances it would be rather more
convenient, certainly far less hazardous, to have no name at all. But
without a name there would be no existence,—how could a nameless thing
be admitted to ‘Apo Legan,’ or Heaven? The receiving of a name is really
the starting-point of life; and the bestowal of a name by the parents
is probably the most serious of parental duties, and to be performed
with ceremonies proportioned to their rank. So essential is the ceremony
of naming that in the enumeration of a family an unnamed child is not
counted; and should a child die before the ceremony of naming, a Kayan
or Kenyah mother would mourn for it no more deeply than had it been
stillborn. This is true even when an unnamed child lives to be nearly a
year old.
Children of the labouring classes are named at the completion of what
the father considers a successful harvest of rice; and the day is set
for the ceremony when the phase of the moon is deemed auspicious; the
rest of the household, with the exception of the few friends who assist,
is undisturbed. When, however, the son of a Chief is to be named, and
thereby admitted into the circle of kindred or into humanity, the
occasion is made a holiday, and a feast-day for the whole community, and
friendly households far and near for miles around are summoned to attend.
It was on such an occasion as this, that we, Dr. Hiller and myself, had
the rare fortune to be the visitors of Tama Bulan, the most influential
Chief in the Baram District of Sarawak.
We had but recently come to Borneo when we first met Tama Bulan at
the Baram Fort, whither he had come to attend a peacemaking and
ratification of friendship with certain Ibans who had recently moved
into the district, and also to barter at the Bazaar the rattans, raw
gutta-percha, and camphor that his people had collected. We were much
impressed with the sedate dignity of this inland Chief and the quiet
demeanor of his people, and greatly desired to become more thoroughly
acquainted with them. As he was sitting cross-legged on the veranda of
Dr. Hose’s bungalow and discussing the affairs of the up-river people,
he mentioned with pride that as soon as he reached home there were to
be great feastings and ceremonies over the naming of his only son.
Here was the chance of a life-time could we but induce him to let us
be present during these ceremonies. We were totally unacquainted with
Tama Bulan’s language,—the Kenyah,—or even with Malay, the Lingua Franca
throughout Borneo and the greater part of the adjacent islands,—but what
of that? Sign language is all sufficient at a pinch, and, furthermore, a
vocabulary of a hundred and fifty to two hundred words is soon acquired,
and, in simple Polynesian dialects, will prove adequate for all ordinary
purposes. I doubt if any Caucasian has ever witnessed these ceremonies
as observed by the Kenyahs; at any rate, as far as I know, they have
never been recorded; accordingly, we strenuously urged Dr. Hose to obtain
for us an invitation. When he, finally, with much tact, told the Kenyah
Chief how anxious we were to return with him and pay him a visit in his
home, the proposal was listened to with unusual gravity. Tama Bulan’s
keen black eyes studied us very carefully from head to foot; evidently
he was weighing the chances of possible accidents either to us or to
his people. At last he broke silence, and, having in mind the dangerous
rapids in the river, his first question was, ‘Can the Tuans [_gentlemen_]
swim?’ When assured that we were adepts in that art, he deliberated again
for a while, and then asked, ‘How can we get along without talking? the
Tuans cannot speak my language, nor can I speak theirs.’ This objection
was put aside by Dr. Hose, who flatteringly rejoined, ‘Ah, Tama Bulan
does not know the power of the white man as well as I thought he did.
The Tuans are so clever that in two days they will be able to speak your
language as well as you do yourself; everything is easy to a white man.’
Whereat Tama Bulan smiled broadly, and, after another searching gaze,
consented to let us return with him,—provided the government would not
hold him responsible for any accidents. And so it was agreed, and the
matter settled. But for some time my conscience did not acquit me of the
conviction that we had forced ourselves unwarrantably on an unwilling
host; however, I solaced myself with the cheering reflection that we
could amply recompense him at the close of our visit.
Tama Bulan is a Chief of the Kenyah tribe, and his home is between three
and four hundred miles in the interior of the island, on the Pata River,
a tributary of the Baram. His house is one of the largest and best built
in that large district, and is, moreover, conducted on rigid principles
of Kenyah morality. Of course, in such a community theft is unknown,
where every one knows every article of property belonging to the others.
Thieving being thus eliminated, one of the strictest rules in Tama
Bulan’s house is that no woman, young or old, shall frequent the veranda
after nightfall; young girls must remain in their family apartments, and
if they have sweethearts they must entertain these sweethearts there,
and not sit sentimentally with them in convenient dark corners, whereof
there is no lack in a veranda. Another of Tama Bulan’s rules is wisely
sanitary, namely, that no rice may be hulled in the veranda; the dust
arising from the chaff is not only irritating to the nostrils, but is
also apt to produce an itching rash on the skins of young children and
infants. To each family is apportioned a small shed at the back of the
house for the threshing and hulling of the rice; and where, moreover, the
workers are to a certain degree secluded, and not liable to distraction
and idleness as they would be in a veranda.
Tama Bulan himself is one of the best types of a Bornean Chief. Although
only about five or six years ago he was a passionate head-hunter (and
is still, I believe, in his heart of heart, having been carefully and
religiously brought up by his parents), he is now a genuinely loyal and
highly valuable subject to Rajah Brooke, and has been made a member of
the ‘Council Negri,’ a legislative body composed of the Rajah, of the
English Resident Officers of the first class, of several of the most
influential Malays in Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, and of three or
four of the most trustworthy and intelligent of the native Chiefs. This
Council Negri, one of the admirable devices of that wise legislator,
Rajah Brooke, meets once a year to discuss what might be termed national
affairs, and to lay before the Rajah all complaints or suggestions.
[Illustration: THE HANDLE OF A PARANG, OR SHORT SWORD, CARVED OUT OF
DEER’S HORN, AND DECORATED WITH TUFTS OF HUMAN HAIR AND WHITE GOAT’S
HAIR. THE DESIGN IS CALLED “KOHONG KALUNAN”—A MAN’S HEAD, BECAUSE IT IS
COMPOSED OF SEVERAL GROTESQUE FACES.]
Our host, with whom we became eventually intimately acquainted, and of
whom I became very fond, (his staunch friendship on one occasion saved
our lives,) was a man of about forty-five, well built, but not muscular
in appearance, about five feet six inches tall, his face broad, cheek
bones somewhat high, eyes wide apart, lips thin, and mouth large but well
shaped; his smile is ready, kind, and benignant, and his laugh reveals
two rows of polished, regular, and highly blackened teeth. In his general
expression there is not the least suggestion of what we are pleased to
term a savage; his demeanor was quiet, unobtrusive, and dignified, and
his voice soft and subdued. In obedience to fashion (to whose behests
every son of Adam is a slave) his ear-lobes are pierced, and by means
of heavy copper rings, inserted in early infancy, are so elongated that
they almost touch his shoulder. The upper part of each ear is also
perforated, so as to permit the insertion of a tiger-cat’s tooth; this
ornament is, however, inserted only for full dress; in every-day life
a plug of wood about half an inch in diameter is substituted. These
‘looped and windowed’ ears serve, in the lack of clothing, as pockets,
and are extremely convenient receptacles of cigarettes, or even of boxes
of matches. His head is shaved in a straight line extending horizontally
from one temple to another, but his straight, black hair is allowed to
grow long at the back. I describe Tama Bulan thus somewhat at length
because he is a typical and pure-blooded Kenyah.
The skin of the Kenyahs and Kayans is not yellow, but somewhat darker
than a Chinaman’s; they have none of the characteristics of the
thick-lipped African negro, nor have they the bushy, krinkly hair of
the Papuans; nor the almond eyes, or the stretched inner canthus of the
Mongolians.
On ordinary occasions, they wear nothing but a loin-cloth, made either
of bark fibre of native manufacture, or of red, white, or black cotton
cloth, bought from Chinese traders in the Bazaar (the Malay name for a
trading-post). On their heads they wear a close-fitting, pointed cap made
of thin strips of rattan, (or ‘rotan’ as they call it,) or of bamboo
woven into a pretty chequered pattern of black and yellow; when exposed
to the sun they often exchange this skull cap for a broad, flat disc
made of palm leaves and tied to the head.
In order that we might not burden Tama Bulan and his canoes with our
heavy luggage of several boxes of tinned provisions, cooking utensils,
and not a few articles for judicious presents, such as tobacco, bolts of
cheap cotton cloth, and a quantity of steel bars, wherefrom the natives
forge parangs and spear-heads, Dr. Hose kindly lent his large dug-out,
which afforded comfortable quarters for ourselves and also (a pleasant
arrangement) for our host, the Chief. The dug-out was about sixty feet
long and five feet wide amidship, made of a single log, but deepened
considerably by the addition of planks bound along the sides with rattan
and caulked, thus giving about six inches of additional freeboard. The
party consisted of eight canoes, bearing Tama Bulan’s followers, and as
they swung into view after their start from the Bazaar, a short distance
below Dr. Hose’s bungalow, which stands on a high and steep bluff,
they shouted to us and loudly rapped their paddles on the sides of the
canoes, by way of urging us to hurry down to the bank, so great was their
impatience to be fairly started on the homeward voyage. We had divided
the central third of the canoe into two compartments, separated from each
other by our luggage, sleeping mats, mosquito curtains, etc.; in the
forward division we took up our quarters, reserving the aft division for
Tama Bulan, who seemed to fill and overflow it with his shields, parangs,
large sun-hats, bundles and baskets packed with cheap cloths, Malay
sarongs, heavy copper ear-rings, pressed glass bowls, and beads of every
description,—all commissions executed for his household and received in
exchange for jungle products. Where, or how he managed to sleep I cannot
imagine,—but he was the Chief, and uneasy lies the head that wears a
crown. As for us, we were really comfortable with rubber blankets and
thick rugs spread over the flooring of bamboo strips which rested on
the thwarts amidship, except that after awhile, as sitting cross-legged
became misery, we longed for a chance to dangle our legs. Overhead was a
roof of ‘kajangs’—a thin thatch of palm leaves—to protect us from the sun
and rain. As soon as the canoe was all packed, and our Chinese cook and
two Malay servants were properly ensconced in other canoes, and it took
a deal of excited shouting and innumerable shiftings before this was
accomplished to the satisfaction of the crew of each canoe, the word was
given, and with a few powerful strokes from the paddles which sent the
spray dashing and the water eddying all about us, we were round the turn
of the river and had bid adieu to even such comfort and civilization as
the Baram Bazaar affords, and had fairly started on this journey to the
far interior of Borneo, with its untold possibilities, at the mercy of
unknown natives, of whose very language we knew not a word.
[Illustration: THE CHINESE BAZAAR AT CLAUDETOWN—BARAM FORT.
IT CONSISTS OF A ROW OF SEPARATE SHOPS, WITH A WIDE VERANDA IN FRONT.
TO TEMPT THE NATIVES, THERE IS THEREIN DISPLAYED EVERY VARIETY OF
MERCHANDISE, FROM GLASS BEADS TO SEWING MACHINES, FROM SILK SCARFS TO
CALICO, FROM ARRACK TO WHITE-SEAL CHAMPAGNE, FROM CHINESE CONFECTIONS TO
PATENT MEDICINES.
MEXICAN DOLLARS ARE THE MEDIUM OF EXCHANGE, BUT A LARGE PART OF THE
TRADING IS IN THE JUNGLE PRODUCTS COLLECTED BY THE NATIVES, SUCH AS
RATTANS, GUTTA-PERCHA, CAMPHOR CRYSTALS, TAPIOCA, SAGO, RHINOCEROS HORN,
EDIBLE BIRDS’-NESTS, ETC.
IN THE PHOTOGRAPH, WHICH WAS TAKEN DURING THE RAINY SEASON, WHEN STEAMERS
CANNOT CROSS THE BARAM BAR, THE OPEN SPACE IN FRONT OF THE ROW OF SHOPS
IS PILED UP WITH RATTANS AWAITING SHIPMENT. THE GROUP OF IBANS CLAD IN
MALAY SARONGS ARE ADJUSTING THE GAFFS ON A FIGHTING-COCK PREPARATORY TO
ENGAGING IN ONE OF THEIR FAVOURITE SPORTS.]
Until the central high-lands of Borneo are reached, the river scenery
is utterly uninteresting and monotonous; near the coast, where the
river water is still brackish, the banks are lined with the feathery
Nipa palm with fronds like stiff ferns, often forty feet high. These
palms have no stalk, but start in a cluster close to the ground or just
at the surface of the water, and grow so close together as to make an
almost impenetrable wall. At first they appear beyond measure beautiful,
with their polished, glancing leaves, quivering and wavering with every
breath of air; and the gleam of the dark maroon mid-rib of the leaves
swaying slowly with the motion adds a flickering light to the deep
shadows, suggestive of mystery through the illimitable aisles beneath
the over-arching fronds. But a closer acquaintance reveals the realm of
crocodiles and snakes, not to mention the unromantic mosquito, diminutive
in size but mighty to annoy. [Once on a time, in the salad days of my
Borneo life, I tried to take a photograph in the depth of a Nipa swamp,
but indeed, the torment of the myriads of rapacious and voracious
mosquitoes which attacked me while making the necessary exposure was
absolutely intolerable. When I threw the focussing cloth over my head
I entrapped unwittingly so many mosquitoes that I could hardly see to
focus; in one minute they had stung me on the lips, cheeks, eyelids,
within the nostrils, and on the ears. I am not a coward, but I really
could not face, literally, the overwhelming onslaught for the two minutes
which, on account of the dim light, were necessary for the exposure; the
poor wretch of an Iban who was with me, clad only in his loin-cloth,
actually cried and moaned with the suffering; my negative turned out to
have been under-exposed because both of us had been over-exposed.] After
twenty or thirty miles of this unbroken wall of Nipa palms the charm
diminishes, until at last all beauty is lost in satiety and the sight
becomes infinitely tedious. It is, by the way, from these Nipa palms thus
growing in brackish water that the natives obtain salt; the ashes of the
stalks, leaves, and roots are soaked in water, which, when the water is
evaporated, yields a very dirty looking salt, much preferred, however,
by the natives to that which can be bought in the Bazaar. Where the Nipa
palms end wild sugar-cane begins, and its gray-green, grassy stalks
become quite as monotonous as the Nipa; it is not until the low muddy
banks of the river change, first to sandy and then to pebbly beaches,
that the real beauty of the river begins.
Notwithstanding the exciting novelty of our situation I cannot say that
that first day passed quickly, or that it was full of interest; a day is
a long time when it is spent hour after hour in gliding along a wall of
unvarying green. Tama Bulan’s last purchase at the Bazaar was a Chinese
tea ‘cosy’—a little cylindrical basket lined with felt, holding a small
teapot closely fitted and keeping the tea hot for a long time. Every five
minutes, as it seemed, we heard the click of the hasp; then the creak of
the cover as the teapot was lifted out; then a loud and prolonged sucking
sound as Tama Bulan luxuriously drained with infinite gusto a diminutive
cup of tea. I am quite sure that the teapot was so often replenished
from the river that it yielded, finally, nothing but tepid and muddy
water,—but ah! the charm of drinking from a china teapot and quaffing
with an ecstatic gurgle! The old Chief often peered through a little
crevice in the pile of luggage between us, and then he would chuckle and
give vent to a flow of words which bubbled out so fluently between his
broad smile and his blackened teeth that they seemed to stumble over
themselves and end off in fit of coughing. We smiled, nodded, mumbled,
and pretended to understand it all,—even the cough.
Toward dusk of the first day we halted at a sloping sand-bank, enclosed
on three sides by a dense hedge of wild sugar-cane, full of mysterious
rustlings and sighings, and stretching far over the low ground to the
beginning of the jungle. The other boats of our party were already tied
up to the shore, and the brown-skinned men in their scarlet waist-cloths
were bustling about collecting fire-wood and building cranes whereon
to hang their little kettles of rice. A row of fires was soon started,
and the short twilight of the tropics deepened into dark; the dancing
fires cast giant shadows on the gray-green leaves of the wild sugar-cane,
and lit up the intent faces of the natives and their glistening eyes
and brass-studded teeth as they squatted about the fires or stirred
the bubbling pots. When the meal was ended and they were smoking long
cigarettes of Java tobacco rolled in the dried leaf of the wild banana,
the moon rose and the embers of the fires were scattered. To become
more at home with our hosts and fellow travellers we entered into their
games and contests in broad jumping, high jumping, and tugs of war. Alas
for me, I was indiscreet enough to turn a handspring for them, and also
walk on my hands, feats that apparently were perfectly new to them; ever
after I was introduced by Tama Bulan to his friends with the laudatory
remark that I could walk on my hands and turn over; whereupon, be it
on muddy bank or hard floor, I was incontinently obliged to repeat the
performance.
[Illustration: SCENE ON THE BARAM
A RAFT BRINGING RATTANS TO THE BAZAAR.]
When the Chief retired to his boat it was the signal for the general
breaking up of the pastime. Grass mats were brought from the boats and
spread on the sand, whereon the men threw themselves, and, in the soft
light of the tropical moon, we were all soon lulled to sleep by the
constant drone and chirp of nocturnal insects.
Early the next morning we awoke and saw, by the light of the setting
moon, the men shaking out their mats and making preparations for starting
off. We were soon under way once more, and between waking and sleeping
we were conscious of the rhythmical click of the paddles and of an
occasional command of ‘Mishai! Mishai!’ from Tama Bulan to the rowers to
wield their paddles stronger and faster.