Terengganu Song

Check out this freaking awesome unofficial song for the state of Terengganu, on the east coast of Malaysia.
This is my husband's home state.

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Malaysian Borneo magazine article

MALAYSIAN BORNEO STORY

By Suzan Crane
November, 2004
Published in KLM Airlines in-flight magazine
Photos by Dawna Zukirmi

I am hot, sweaty and itching like a dog with fleas, the insidious little creatures known as sand flies having marked their territory on every inch of my body. Slipping and sliding down steep muddy embankments, progress impeded by fallen trees and the aggressive attacks of prickly-skinned bushes, we venture deep into the bowels of Malaysian Borneo's primeval rainforest.

"I take you to a hidden paradise," Jok, my Kayan driver, says as we walk further into the bush. Then I see them, barely visible amidst the dense jungle foliage: several primitive dwellings constructed of ragged tree branches and torn bark welded together by thin strips of rattan. Intentionally eschewing the well trodden tourist track I have collided with an extraordinary parallel universe.

Curious eyes and toothless smiles greet our arrival at the camp of this small group of Penan nomads, the most remote of Sarawak's 27 indigenous tribes and amongst the last remaining hunter-gatherers on earth. Into an archaic world where time has no meaning and people don't know their age, daily life consists of simply finding food: blowpipes with poison darts to hunt wild boar, monkeys and mouse deer; bamboo baskets to collect sago, their dietary staple. Dirty-faced toddlers wearing beaded bracelets around their spindly legs peer out from behind loin-clothed men and topless women while elders puff away at banana leaf-wrapped cigarettes. A cooking fire is burning in one of the open-sided lean-tos to which pet monkeys are tethered. According to custom I present the chief with smoking tobacco, a well-received gift. I quickly sense that I am in the presence of a dying civilization. Imperiled by globalization and deforestation, survival of these illiterate peripatetic Orang Ulu (upriver people) is tenuous. An estimated 40 percent of this dwindling tribe has resettled into government provided housing.

With more than 45 dialects spoken in Sarawak communication is limited to smiles and gestures. Regardless, I am grateful that I made the 350 km four-wheel drive journey over dusty logging roads to visit these elusive drifters. That night is spent on the floor of a Penan family's one room electricity-less wooden hut. We prepare our evening meal on the banks of the river, paddle across it to retrieve fresh spring water and do our morning ablutions in the privacy of our own bush.

My excursion through Malaysian Borneo started several weeks earlier in Kuching, the historic, heterogeneous capital of Sarawak, Malaysia's largest state and one of three that comprise the island of Borneo (Sabah lies to the north and Indonesia's Kalimantan to the south; Brunei is a sultanate). Upon arriving visions of Borneo as an untamed frontier quickly evaporated. The world's third largest island is a study in contrasts where contemporary urban sensibilities fuse with tradition. KFC and Starbucks vie for space amongst local markets and heritage sites, venders wearing Nirvana t-shirts hawk durian and dried fish, and young people leave their rural longhouses for opportunities in the cities. Customs such as filial piety (ancestor worship) persist, but many Dayak (Iban and Bidayuh) have combined their animistic beliefs with Christianity.

Kuching is charming, but I'm eager to head upriver. Nine hours, two boats and few Westerners later we land in Kapit, the "gateway" to the upper Rejang and Baleh Rivers (the latter providing the backdrop to Redmond O'Hanon's book "Into The Heart Of Borneo.") A vibrant port town where Dayak and Orang Ulu (Kayan, Kenyah Melanau, Penan, Berawan, Punan, Kelabit) converge, we arrive during the annual Kapit Fest. Underscoring Sarawak's cultural cacophony, tattooed Iban and Kayan people peddle larvae and home-grown produce in the market followed by traditional tribal performances in the town square. It is here that we meet Mr. Philip and secure an invitation to his wife's remote Iban longhouse, a communal society unique to Borneo's indigenous groups.

The road is unfinished and smells of wet tar. It threads through a wooded interior scarred by the Iban's slash and burn padi fields. A year ago this secluded area was accessible only by longboat, a four to six hour journey from Kapit. The end of the road feels like the end of the earth. Precariously balancing our loaded backpacks, we negotiate a clear shallow stream, the cool water dancing around our knees a welcome reprieve from the incessant tropical heat. Up rickety wooden stairs to our awaiting hosts on the veranda above, the perfume of the forest commingles with the strong scent of burning plants.

We are ushered inside and drop our packs in the vast common area known as the "living room." A phalanx of kids scurry out from behind closed doors like mice scampering out of their holes, reticent smiles pasted on their faces. Small groups of women sit together weaving and preparing vegetables for sale in the market. Squares of natural rubber dry in the sun, roosters crow from afar. Several elders join our party. Most do not speak English. Our hostess, Jega Anak Keling (Jega, the child of Keling), leans down beside me. "They want to know if you are a man or a woman," she chuckles. Now I'm no Pamela Anderson, but I'm fairly certain that my gender is apparent. "It's because you have a tattoo on your chest," she explains. In Iban society only men tattoo the chest. The women adorn their arms. Using carbon from a kerosene lamp, tattoos - particularly the customary depiction of brinjal flowers on a man's upper torso - are executed by hand with a bamboo apparatus. Tattoos on the throat - applied when a boy is about 15 -- and later on the back (believed to frighten the animals in the jungle) are signs of a warrior and a way to lure the ladies. "If a man didn't have tattoos, a woman wouldn't fall in love with him," I am told. For women, tattoos signify ranking and skill. Only the elders still don conventional designs as young people prefer contemporary body art. Again, I make a mental note. When the seniors pass, so goes more evidence of a tribe's history. The same holds true for the traditional ear stretching of Kayan and other Orang Ulu clans where women once used brass weights to lengthen their earlobes. Today, even the elders have surgically cut the lobes back.

After partaking of the customary welcome drink tuak -- fermented rice wine -- we bathe in the translucent river clad in sarongs. Later we trek through a rocky creek enveloped by thick jungle to harvest vegetables from the small plot of land belonging to the family. Our hostess Ngana picks leafy greens and corn. She then throws a few ears on the fire started to keep the mosquitoes at bay. This is life in all its delicious simplicity. Dinner that night consists of vegetables and rice, chicken, deer, and python snake, which my friend Ian describes as "chewy and surprisingly boney." Although not on the menu, the locals also feast on a variety of insects, including cicadas and grasshoppers, fried or steamed in leaves. After dinner we meander through the 22 door (ie: 22 family) longhouse. Looking skyward we are greeted by mummified trophies of the community's ancestors: several groupings of heads encased in bamboo "cages" hang in front of doors. Once a year the descendants of Sarawak's largest and most fearsome headhunting tribe make ritualistic offerings to the heads for good luck.

We sleep encased in mosquito netting in the front room with our host family. When we awake at sunrise most of the residents of the longhouse are already out. Images of a folkloric past conjured by the many imparted tales and legends linger when we depart.

Another long journey to Miri, the northern-most city of Sarawak With my friend Dawna heading back to Kuala Lumpur, I engage Tropical Adventures to jettison me deeper into Borneo's interior. An overnight stop at a modern Kayan longhouse in Long Bidian precedes my visit with the Penan. Here I meet old women who as adolescents stretched their ears and tattooed their arms, hands, legs and feet as means of "beautification." Kelabit women sport different images on their appendages, believing tattoos are beacons that "glow like mushrooms in the jungle and lead them to those who died before," explains Hendrick Nicholas, a Kelabit artist. From there, it's off to the recently anointed world heritage site of Mulu National Park - noted for adventure caving and its fabled "Headhunter's Trail" - and onto Sabah.

Nicknamed "The Land Below The Wind," Sabah was formerly known as North Borneo and passed through many ruling hands before joining the new country of Malaysia in 1963. Its preponderance of natural resources has long been exploited by palm-oil plantation owners, land barons and logging industrialists and parts of Malaysia's poorest state are still under dispute by neighboring Indonesia and Philippines. Unlike Sarawak, Sabah's sense of history and culture is muted. Although an astounding 80 dialects are spoken, its indigenous peoples (including Kadazan-Dusun, Murat, and Bajau) melt inconspicuously into an ethnic pot of Malay, Chinese, Indonesians, and Philippinos.

Sitting on the edge of the South China Sea's turquoise waters overlooking coral-fringed islands and the towering Crocker Range, the skies are crying again today in Kota Kinabalu, Sabah's capital. It's rainy season and at least once a day a downpour blankets Malaysian Borneo. A local bus drops me in the little kampung of Gum Gum from where we are transported to Sepilok Orang Utan Rehabilitation Center and the fertile Sungai Kinabatangan floodplain. I spend the next several days at Uncle Tan's wildlife camp

"Help," I shriek in a tiny voice as I tumble into a ditch. A wild elephant is in hot pursuit, apparently spooked by our close proximity. Trekking through the mangrove-fringed jungle we have encountered a small band of pygmy elephants that eventually chases us down to the riverbank. Back at camp we find that stealthy macaque longtail monkeys have absconded with daypacks from our door-less stilt huts and food from the kitchen. The resident bearded pigs are wallowing in mud pools while a massive lizard languishes nearby. A jewel in Sabah's crown, this lush valley is home to an abundance of animal and plant life. During our night river safaris, the glowing eyes of crocodiles peer up from inky water on which a brilliant starry sky is mirrored. Wild cats agilely skulk through the low grass of the wetlands while owls and kingfishers nobly perch on branches above. Endangered proboscis monkeys swing high atop the trees, otters scurry near the riverbank and hornbills soar overhead. Traversing the jungle on foot a nocturnal world alights. Scorpions, snakes, bats, giant centipedes, luminous butterflies, frogs, and hordes of spiders stir in the peaceful darkness.

I begrudgingly leave the serenity of Uncle Tan's for Sipidan, a small island renowned for spectacular marine life and the unfortunate Abu Sayyaff kidnapping incident of 2000. Descending just meters below the aqua waters of the Celebes Sea, a kaleidoscope of color, shape and patterns jump-starts the senses. Enormous turtles appear to fly through the underwater universe while mysterious tropical fish cruise calmly by. Sipidan is amongst the world's best dive spots, but even with snorkel and fins the vista down under is superb.

The small city of Semporna is not much more than a link to Sipidan and a stop off for the citizenship-less Sea Gypsies - the aquatic equivalent to Sarawak's Penan nomads -- who roam the waters off the coast. But on this day of Hari Raya which marks the end of the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, the mood is festive. Praying and singing at the nearby mosque has been audible throughout the night and everyone is bedecked in finery. Not a good day to travel, I discover. With buses running sporadically, I must rely on an extortionist Chinese taxi driver to get me to the airport for my return flight to Kota Kinabalu. Memories etched indelibly in my mind I consider my experiences on this bountiful island where -- despite travel advisories -- I always felt secure in the warm embrace of its gracious inhabitants. "The people take you into their hearts and family without hesitation," comments Australian tourist Maxine Thomas, echoing the sentiment of most travelers I meet.

Malaysian Borneo's cities are sometimes dirty. Its rainforests have been raped, its politics dubious. However, despite copious eco-treasures and adventure options - caving, trekking, rafting, climbing, mountain biking, diving -- it has yet to succumb to the temptations of full throttle over-commercialization. Malaysian Borneo beckoned me once. I suspect it will call again.

SIDEBARS:

THE REIGN OF THE WHITE RAJAS
Sarawak boasts a history worthy of Hollywood. Controlled by the sultanate of Brunei between the 15th and early 19th centuries, Sarawak was amidst a rebellion by local Malays and Bidayuhs when Englishman James Brooke arrived in 1849. Successfully quelling the uprising, Brooke was rewarded with land and in 1942 installed by the Sultan of Brunei as the White Raja of Sarawak. Thus began the 100 year Brooke family reign which ended with Japanese occupation during WWII. Upon his death in 1868, James Brooke was succeeded by his nephew, Charles Brooke, who in 1917 was followed by his son Charles Vyner Brooke - the final White Raja. In 1946 he ceded Sarawak to the British. Resulting protests supported by his nephew and heir apparent Anthony Brooke culminated with the assassination of Sarawak's governor by a Malay student in 1949. In 1963 Sarawak joined Sabah and Malaya to form the new country of Malaysia.

HEADHUNTING
Headhunting is the practice of cutting off and preserving the head of a slain enemy and has been employed by many cultures throughout history, some as recently as the early 20th century. Most tribes believed the head was related to the soul and weakened the power of the enemy. The act intimidated one's enemies and served as tokens of courage and manhood. For Malaysian Borneo's Dayak and Orang Ulu people, headhunting was associated with prestige and honor, the number of brave warriors' heads acquired determining the level of status. Young women would not consider a man who had yet to prove himself by taking a head, sometimes encouraging the act. Headhunting in Malaysian Borneo ceased in the 1900s during the reign of the White Rajas. Today, the legendary headhunters of Malaysian Borneo live peaceful agrarian lives. The important Gawai Dayak Festival (Harvest Festival) is testament to the harmonious relationships that now exist between once warring factions.


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