afresh, Tama Bulan arose to take his leave. All the people of the
house, even the women and children, marched out in single file and took
their places on the plank walk leading to the river-bank, and even on
the notched log at the very edge of the water. As the brave old Kenyan
Chief’s canoe swung out, all those who stood on the shore waved their
large disc-like hats, shouting farewells and wishes for his safe journey
home. He leaned far out from under the palm-leaf screen of his canoe,
and with a broad smile, revealing a gleam of his shining black teeth,
waved his hat and shouted success to the Great Peace-party; the swift
current caught his boat, and it dashed out of sight round the turn of
the river. There is unquestionably an unusual personal force in this
middle-aged Kenyah Chief’s character; not a tribe that does not respect
his name and speak of him with admiration mingled almost with reverence.
In my book of photographs, which I carried about with me to overcome the
objections of timid souls to having their portraits taken, Tama Bulan’s
portrait soon became framed with a black margin of thumb-marks, and
his features much dimmed by constant fingering,—the natives are never
content simply to look at a portrait, but always insist on passing their
hands over it; in landscapes, no matter how familiar the scene, they
take no interest whatever. Tama Bulan’s influence cannot be attributed
to fierce looks; his expression is, on the contrary, gentle and benign;
nor is his presence commanding, but yet, when he once gives an order or
pronounces judgement, there seems to be no thought of disobedience or of
appeal. Certainly, he has one characteristic: keenness; we once asked
him if he knew what was meant when, in talking English among ourselves,
we said ‘T. B.’ (his initials); he at once replied, ‘I think, Tuan, you
are, probably, talking about me.’ We were led to ask because we noticed
several times that he looked up swiftly when these initials were uttered.
By the time that all the arrack had been quaffed, the promiscuous
household of Aban Avit was somewhat demoralized; nevertheless, we picked
out a party of eight or ten sober men to escort us to the top of an
adjoining hill, whence we could get the bearings of several mountains
which would give us cross-bearings when we reached the really hilly
country. It was an exceedingly difficult ascent, although the hill was
only five hundred feet high; so dense was the jungle with thorny palms,
rattans, and the roots of ‘buttress trees,’ that we had to cut every
step of our way to the top. When we reached the summit we were just as
much closed in by trees as when we were at the foot. As a sight of the
horizon was essential, there was no help for it but to sacrifice some of
the grand old trees; so our men were set to work with their axes, and in
a few minutes one after another of the venerable giants went toppling
down the precipitous hillside, carrying smaller trees in their fall and
making a crashing roar that reverberated from mountain to mountain like
veritable peals of thunder. Then were disclosed views of the surrounding
mountains through the open windows in the foliage, and we were enabled
to take the bearings of Mt. Dulit, and Mt. Mulu, and the peaks of a low
range of lime-stone hills that were to the south-westward near the coast.
The next day, during our toilsome paddling up-river, we overtook an old
Chief named Jamma and his party, also on the way to Tama Aping Buling’s
to participate in the Peace ceremonies.
Jamma had the reputation of having at all times a marvellously good
opinion of himself, and on this occasion was travelling in grand state
with gong-players in the bow of his boat discoursing that tinkling,
staccato music, of which, it seems, he was an ardent admirer.
[Illustration: LAKI JOK ORONG, A REJANG RIVER CHIEF.
THE ORNAMENTS IN HIS EARS ARE CARVED OUT OF THE BEAK OF A HORN-BILL, IN
IMITATION OF TIGER-CAT’S TEETH.]
The instrument known as the ‘Kromong’ is an importation from Brunei,
the ancient capital of Borneo, and consists of a series of eleven small
brass gongs laid on ropes of rice straw and struck with a wooden beater.
The result is perfect in time but absolutely devoid of melody; it is
merely running up and down the imperfect scale of gongs in sequence, or
beginning at the deepest toned, or largest gong, with the left hand, the
third in the series is struck with the right hand, then the second with
the left and the fourth with the right, and so up the line of all the
eleven gongs, the left hand following the right at an interval of one
gong. At a distance, possibly at a very great distance, the sound wafted
across the water is really not unpleasant, recalling the gurgling and
tinkling of a woodland brook; but close at hand its jangling monotony is
beyond words exasperating.
Jamma, to whom was due this running accompaniment, is the nephew of the
redoubtable Aban Jau, who, in the wild days before Sir Charles Brooke
became Rajah of the Baram district, was the ruler over all the people
of the Tinjar. For years he defied the Sarawak Government, and with his
numerous and formidable household of eight hundred people was the terror
of the whole region. His house was over a quarter of a mile in length,
and was well stocked with brass swivel-guns brought from Brunei. But he
was finally overpowered by the Rajah’s trained Iban soldiers and forced
to submit to the laws and the taxes of Sarawak. Mild and moderate as
these were, they were too galling to Aban Jau, and he soon after migrated
to the regions of ‘Bulun Matai,’—the Land of the Dead,—his household
was scattered, and nothing now remains of his long-house except rows of
decaying posts stretching far away into a thick, impenetrable overgrowth
of palms, gigantic ferns, and tangled vines. To judge of the dead uncle
by the living nephew, it cannot be said that the breed is improved;
the nephew, Jamma, is a decidedly repulsive old fellow in spite of his
musical strain. At the time I made his acquaintance he was sadly in need
of a razor, or rather, of a pair of tweezers; a five days’ scraggly
growth of grizzled bristles covered his chin and cheeks; to aid his
failing eyes he wore a pair of huge, circular, brass-rimmed spectacles,
evidently a bargain, purchased at random from a Chinese trader; their
focus did not in the least comply with the formula of his eye-sight, and
made him squinny up his eyes in a number of wrinkles that would puzzle
Cocker. The eyes behind the glasses resembled those of an Orang Utan;
the whites were a dirty, blood-shot brown, and the iris appeared to
have overrun and left a stain around it. His eyebrows and eyelashes had
been pulled out, and beneath the lower lids hung wrinkled and flabby
bags of skin. His upper lip was long, and came down to a point in the
middle, and his lower lip was thick and everted, exposing the pale,
moist, inner surface. His nose was broad and flat, and the nostrils
opened directly forward and apparently into the cavities of his skull.
On his head a thin, unhealthy-looking crop of whitish hair stood up,
like a scrubbing-brush, where it was not covered by the very dirty and
faded blue and white jockey cap of canton flannel, which he wore with
unmeasured pride and with a ‘peace in the consciousness of being well
dressed,’ which all his ‘religion could not bestow.’ The stretched lobe
of his right ear had given way, and one long end dangled down on his
chest and whipped from side to side whenever he moved his head quickly.
Long experience has taught me utterly to distrust personal appearance at
first sight, but in Jamma’s case a prolonged acquaintance confirmed a
belief that his intense ugliness had struck in.
The Peace-party was by this time assuming large proportions; constant
additions were made to it from the houses along the river, and late in
the afternoon, after a vigorous and inevitable outburst from Jamma’s
gongs, we pulled up at the high sandy bank in front of the house of Tama
Aping Pang. Here, beyond the region of mosquitoes, and while darkness was
closing in, cooking fires were built along the shore.
After the evening meal was finished and universal benevolence was
diffused by soothing cigarettes, all the Kayans went up into the house
to assist Juman in the rite of ‘Usut’—that is, of obliterating a feud.
The interchange of Usut is obligatory between the descendants of
enemies whenever they first enter each other’s houses; they may have
met many times on most friendly terms in the jungle or in the houses
of neighbours, but they must not take shelter under one another’s roof
until they have appeased the wrongs done by and against their ancestors.
The simple rite of giving Usut for ancestral wrongs is expanded into
the performance of Jawa when, in addition, the descendants have been
themselves wrongdoers.
Up the notched log we all mounted to the veranda and seated ourselves
in a circle on the floor. Juman and Tama Aping Pang, a short and squat
little man, with a decidedly Mongolian face, sat cross-legged and facing
each other. Juman began the ceremony by flinging down a roughly made iron
spear-head into the centre of the circle; thereupon Jamma, still wearing
his goggles and his blue and white jockey cap, arose to officiate.
Upon the flat surface of the spear-head a young chicken was at once
decapitated, then torn to pieces, and its warm blood smeared thickly
over the point. The hideous Jamma thereupon proclaimed, in the guttural
grunts of the Sibop language, that all enmity between the Houses of Tama
Aping Pang and Juman was at an end, and hereafter neither of them could
be reproached with having allowed the slaughter of their ancestors to
go unavenged. Whereupon sundry beads and trinkets were exchanged more
as a formality than on account of their value, and some blood from the
spear-point having been rubbed either on the chest or arms of everyone
present, including ourselves, Juman and all his clan at once hailed Tama
Aping Pang and all his clan, as friends. No carousing followed, and the
weary Kayans soon retired to the river-bank and to their canoes to sleep.
This house of Tama Aping Pang is famed for its manufacture of ‘Sumpits,’
or blow-pipes. All along on the partition wall of the veranda, I
noticed that they were stacked in all stages of manufacture, from the
rough-hewn and thick staves up to the drilled and polished tubes. The
best Sumpits are made of a hard, close-grained, reddish wood of a tree
called ‘Niagang.’ This is used not only on account of its hardness but
also because it is exceedingly straight and has very few knots. A staff
of wood about eight feet long is shaved down until it is about three and
a half inches in diameter; it is then inserted in a hole in the floor
of the house, and so secured that one end remains five or six inches
above the floor; over it a man stands with a long, slender rod of iron
flattened to a rough edge at one end; this edge an assistant keeps
constantly true to the centre of the long staff, while the man raises and
drops the drill perpendicularly. Gradually a bore of about a quarter of
an inch in diameter is thus produced. It is an exceedingly slow process;
it takes at least eight or nine hours to drill through the whole length
of the staff. The bore is now smoothed, first, by means of fine sand or
clay smeared on a slim rattan, which is pulled through it many times
rapidly backward and forward. It is then ready for polishing with another
piece of rattan ending in a loop or a cleft, wherein leaves, like the
bamboo, rich in silica, are bound; it is thus polished until it shines
almost as brilliantly as a gun-barrel. The staff is now trimmed down to
the diameter of about an inch and a half at the mouth, and to an inch
at the muzzle, and then scraped and smoothed with knives and shark-skin
files. If the tube happen to be slightly sprung, the curve is overcome
by a broad iron spear-head bound on at the muzzle; when the pipe is held
horizontally the weight of the iron counteracts the curve.
Some of the more highly finished blow-pipes are furnished with a sight,
called by the Kayans ‘Bitan,’ ingeniously made of a cowrie shell imbedded
in gutta-percha near the muzzle, with the slit-like opening turned upward
and parallel with the shaft; again, others have an iron sight, near the
muzzle, bound on with rattan. I have never seen any carved ornamentation
on a blow-pipe except a plate of bone inlaid with strips of lead, at the
mouth-end. ‘Sumpitan’ is the Malay name for the weapon; the Kayans call
it ‘Leput,’ and the Punans simply ‘Put;’ Ibans, who clip and elide Malay
words, drop the ending _an_, and call it ‘Sumpit.’ All these names are,
possibly, derived from an imitation of the sound when the dart is blown
through the tube and the tongue closes the opening with a quick pat.
Before our departure next morning there was lively trading in the
specialty of the house. The house itself was really a notable monument of
industry and artistic taste; many of the projecting beam-ends were carved
and the partition walls decorated with borders and frescoes in black and
red. For a bolt of red cloth I bought the elaborately carved door of a
dwelling-room, whereof the photograph is on the opposite page.
Our next destination was the house of the crafty and treacherous Aban
Liah, once a respected Penghulu, but on account of his duplicity in
connection with the murder of the Chinaman by Tinggi, (set forth in
the preceding pages,) the Government had degraded him. His house was
selected, nevertheless, as a rendezvous for the whole Peace-party before
ascending the river to the house of Tama Aping Billing, just then the
candidate for the Penghulu-ship of the upper Tinjar, and also for Aban
Liah’s seat in the Council Negri.
[Illustration: A DOOR-FRAME FROM THE HOUSE OF TAMA APING PANG, A SIBOP.
THE TWO LITTLE FIGURES ABOVE THE DOOR WERE SAID TO REPRESENT WAWA
MONKEYS. THE CARVING TO THE RIGHT OF THEM IS, I BELIEVE, THE
CONVENTIONALIZED HEAD OF A PIG. BELOW THE DOOR THE SAME DESIGN IS
REPEATED, BUT REVERSED AND DOUBLE.]
After the halt for luncheon, at mid-day, old Jamma courteously invited
me into his boat, and in order to overcome my prejudice against him I
accepted his invitation. He verily tried his best to make me comfortable;
arranged mats and rolls of cloth for me to recline on; started up the
gong-beater to his deafening and lugubrious work; told me with assiduous
attention the names of the small tributary streams which we passed, and
zealously pointed out one where some of his men had gone on a collecting
trip for the ‘thing that smells,’—a circumlocution for camphor,—he was
afraid to pronounce the name lest it bring bad luck to his collectors.
That the river was pre-empted was manifest; across its mouth had been
stretched a rope of rattan, and from it dangled wooden models of parangs,
billiongs, (axes) and spears. These models indicated that the river was
claimed by the camphor collectors; to disregard this warning exposed
the offender to the malignity of all evil Spirits. The only way whereby
such a taboo may be counteracted is to build a fire, and erect over it
an arch of twigs and sticks cut at the ends and down the sides into
curled shavings; when the fire burns up briskly, he who would break the
taboo must carefully explain to the fire that he is a near friend to the
claimants of the river, and entreat the flame and the smoke to convey
his message of good-will both to them and to the Spirits of the jungle.
After this ceremony he may, in perfect safety, pass under the rattan, and
ascend the river.
In the course of this entertaining and instructive conversation,
Jamma suddenly, and apparently for the first time, caught sight of my
briar-wood pipe, and, apropos of nothing, exclaimed, ‘What a pity it is
that the Tuan did not bring with him several pipes like the one he is now
smoking.’ The mystery of his devotion to me was at once solved! Here was
the secret of his hospitality; alack, I did not respond; blind to the
palpable hint, I simply replied that it was indeed a pity, a great pity;
I often liked to change my pipes, but that this one was so exceptionally
sweet that I had brought no other. He had counted on my handing it
over to him with alacrity, and at once his manner changed from ‘gay to
grave, from lively to severe;’ the rest of the journey was passed in an
obstinate silence, unbroken save by the banging of his brazen gongs.
Aban Liah began to show his evil disposition from the very moment we
pulled up at his house; he insisted that Juman should never enter his
house until Usut had been paid. This seemed designed to thwart the whole
Peace-making; not only would much time be consumed in discussing the
payment of Usut which was not due to Aban Liah, but furthermore the
ceremony of Jawa and total settlement of Usut had been planned to take
place in a day or two at Tama Aping Buling’s. Dr. Hose put a stop at once
to all this nonsense by emphatically telling Aban Liah that Juman was
now travelling with the Government,—that is, with Dr. Hose himself,—and
as the Government intended to enter any house that was convenient, Juman
should follow. I am thus particular in giving these details because
of their tragic consequence to Aban Liah. In response, Aban Liah gave
a grunt, and, muttering, shut himself up at once in his private room,
where he sulked for half an hour, while the Kayans and Kenyahs were
making themselves quite at home in his veranda. When they were all seated
in groups, Dr. Hose went to the room and dragged forth the pouting,
grumbling, obstinate old creature, and although the two men, Aban Liah
and Juman, were perfectly well acquainted with each other, Dr. Hose made
an elaborate ceremony of introducing them, as though they had never met
before; this formal introduction really seemed to obliterate all previous
hard feeling, and Aban Liah unbent as though graciously meeting a new
acquaintance. Shortly afterward, our host cleared a space in his room
for us, spread fresh mats, and put his fireplace at the disposal of our
Chinese cook. When we all sat chatting in the veranda, Aban Liah seized
the occasion to expatiate on the magnificent proportions of the pig that
he was going to kill for us on the morrow, affirming that it was seven
spans long (this was one span better than Tama Liri had held out to us),
and very, _very_ fat! His arrack also was of an especially fine brand,
and plenty of it, too, in jars dusty with age.
Suddenly, messengers hurried in to announce that the Lerons from the
house of the Leppu Anans close by, and friends and relatives of Tinggi,
were on their way down-river to go through the ceremony of Jawa with
Juman and his clan.
[Illustration: ABAN LIAH.
A BERAWAN CHIEF, WHO, DURING THE PEACE-MAKING, DIED OF A GUILTY
CONSCIENCE.]
The greatest excitement at once ensued; all jumped to their feet and
began talking and gesticulating wildly. Dr. Hose, fearing that a real
fight, instead of a sham one, might be the result, hurried up-river in a
light canoe, to meet the approaching participators in the Jawa, and to
restrain their zeal. These people, be it remembered, had vowed to kill
Dr. Hose on sight, and had even made death-dealing images both of him and
of Tama Bulan, as I have already mentioned. Dr. Hose’s absolute disregard
of their bloodthirsty threats and machinations disarmed them completely;
he boarded their canoe in the most friendly manner and accompanied them
down-stream.
When they were opposite to Aban Liah’s house, the bravest in their
party fired three or four blank shots from an old muzzle-loading gun.
This salute Juman was bound to answer from the house. His gun was a
breech-loader, but unfortunately so old, battered, and loose in its
joints that a man at the stock stood in as much danger as a man at the
muzzle. Juman’s apology for his reluctance to fire it off was—(literally
translated) ‘Tuan, will you shoot off this snappang for me; I am afraid
its engine has the fever.’ My assistant, Lewis Etzel, discharged it twice
for him, and then made the hair of the Lerons stand on-end by discharging
from his Winchester rifle six shots, in rapid succession. After this
exchange of salutes, the Lerons disembarked and entered the house at the
up-river end. After all were assembled in a dense crowd, panting with
excitement, their eyes dilated and flashing, they paused for a second and
then gave a wild yell, like a jeer of derision, and began stamping their
feet on the rattling boards. It was truly deafening. Instantly Juman and
his people were on their feet. There was a quick, frenzied dash, with
yells and stamps, until they stood face to face. This was the instant
that the sham, weaponless fight should have taken place, leaving black
eyes and torn ears. For a moment, it seemed as though over-excitement
would lead to a deeper tragedy. The reaction came unexpectedly from
Juman, the chief actor in this dramatic show (which in sooth it really
was). Juman, brave enough before a single man, Tinggi, was here overcome
by an attack of—what shall I call it?—stage fright? The next moment we
saw him wilt and ignominiously retreat from the affray. The wild hubbub
subsided weakly. Criticisms of Juman’s conduct were at once loudly,
freely, and universally expressed. But, unabashed, he stoutly maintained
that he had fulfilled all that was required of him, and that now was the
time for Usut. The Lerons had killed many of his ancestors in days of
yore, and he demanded of them, as a salve for his wounded feelings, five
‘Tawaks’—(large bronze gongs made in Java) and five small gongs, (worth
in all about three hundred Mexican dollars.) This considerable sum, the
Lerons protested, was far too high a price to pay for wounds inflicted
on Juman’s ancestors and his own feelings; finally, after much haggling
and many excited gesticulations on both sides, a compromise was struck on
one Tawak, one small gong, and a ‘Lukut sekála,’ one of those invaluable
beads, prized above all others by Kayans, Kenyahs, and Ibans.
(I tried my best to solve the mysterious value of these beads, but
in vain. They are by no means brilliant or showy; indeed, quite the
contrary, they are rather dull and ugly; of about half an inch in
diameter, and on the four quarters there is a little many-pointed star of
dull yellow on a dark background. They look a good deal like old Venetian
glass, but whence they originally came, or wherein consists their charm,
the natives themselves could not or would not tell. Once on a time, some
astute Chinese traders, counting on an assured fortune, sent a Lukut
sekála to Germany, where it was copied with really marvellous fidelity.
With these faultless imitations they were certain that they could deceive
the natives, but the latter detected the counterfeit beads at once, and,
although willing to purchase the forgeries, would pay but a pittance for
them.)
By the terms of the Usut, whenever the Lerons should pay a return visit
to Juman, he pledged himself to restore the Lukut sekála.
As soon as Juman’s Usut was finally settled with the Lerons, Aban Liah’s
vaunted seven-span pig was brought forward for inspection and admiration.
Tama Liri at once fell to measuring it off; when his last span reached
the animal’s snout, he arose, and, gazing round on the circle and wagging
his head with a beaming and triumphant smile, announced that after all
the pig was barely _five_ spans long. The chorus of clucks of surprise
with which this announcement was greeted did not, however, in the least
disconcert the boastful and deceitful old host.
[Illustration: A CONTINGENT OF THE PEACE-PARTY.]