Indonesia 1 | 2

From: "Angie Eng" <angie_eng@hotmail.com>
To: mailing list
Subject: yabadabadoo
Date: Sat, 04 Aug 2001 07:11:19

CULTURE WORE A LOINCLOTH

The moment I put down my rucksack at my guesthouse in Bukkitingi, a binder full of weathered photos and pages of adventure stories involving monkey hunting, shamanistic rituals, roasted bark cuisine and wild pig lavatories was placed on my lap. The guide's selling line was 'You can experience the jungle with the very last of the remaining primitive tribes of Sumatra.' Without further delay, my name was down on the list to spend twelve days on Siberut Island, land of the Mentawai tribe.

Our guide Ed, a long-haired Indonesian, dressed in an Ozzy Ozbourn t-shirt and tight blue jeans with a silver buckle, gathered a posse of 8 beefy pumped western men to participate in the jungle adventure. My fears flashed before me; A fraternity longhouse with the big boys and jungle men with spears dressed in loincloths, making bombastic animal grunts over cane alcohol games. Three hours before our departure, the 10th member, a young Danish woman joined the crew. I was relieved. I would not be the lone woman straggling behind with a twisted ankle as angry orang-utans chased us through the bush, afterall.

With JungleJuice spray, a list of 30 most essential Mentawai words, my own safety pin (in case I wanted to get a traditional tattoo) and a pair of rubber cleats made especially for trekking through knee deep mud, I was ready for my first encounter with primitive man.

If one is to trek through the rainforest, an authentic experience beckons a downpour, slippery log bridges, swarming mosquitoes, the thickness of humidity, dripping sweat blinding your vision, dodging prickly thorns, swinging on lianas, jumping over fallen logs, avoiding stinging attacks from the fireants below, and constant checks of the ankles and legs for the blood-sucking leech. The image of sheets of rain pounding down onto the cultivated forest with primitive people darting in and out of the trees, fulfilled my romantic notion of life in the bush. By the end of the forth hour of our first day's trek, I felt like I had conquered the jungle despite the short one kilometer distance we covered.

Our first encounter with the Mentawai was with a group of women on their smoking break. Drenched with sweat and covered with mud waist high, we could not be surprised by their laughter and pointing fingers.

After the initial greeting of Aloita (hello), the eldest of the group cackled in a hoarse voice, 'SEE-GAH-LETT?' Charmed, I offered my friendship- their favorite, a Surya brand cigarette. Her disheveled black hair almost stood on end and complimented her wide grin of tiger-carved teeth. Like the ancient Huastec Indians and the nomadic Afar, the Mentawai practice the beautification ritual of chiseling each tooth to razor-sharp points. Although the Indonesian government has outlawed this ancient custom, the majority of Mentawai, who have proven to be staunch self-preservationists, resisted any efforts to cosmetically assimilate them into modern society.

In a friendly jest, I commented on her mullet coif. It appeared as though she used the dangling machete at her waist to do the job. Mr. Moli our kitchen porter, informed us that she had recently shed her locks, a custom of recent widows. At the age of fifty, her husband had died of lung cancer. This came as no surprise after witnessing their chain smoking habit.

The widow wrapped her overworked hands covered with ritual tattoos around my arm. I could not help but stare at her neck, which had tattoo lines running parallel from the bottom of her chin to her shoulder blades. Half-naked save for a thin tattered yellow cloth wrapped around her waist, she appeared completely clothed by the blue-black lines traversing her torso, arms and legs. In the past, each settlement wore unique tattoos to distinguish between friend and foe. They continue to perform ritual tattooing, marking for symbolic meaning as well as serving the purpose of tribal identity.

I was blinded by the white butts!

Formalities complete, she stood up to the height of a large pigmy when I noticed her stubby wide callused feet ending in bloated toes resembling half monkey half human. Definitely, these were the most agile tools for mastering Siberut Island. My 99-cent rubber cleats, one size too big, tied onto my feet with pink plastic string were second best for balancing on slippery bamboo rods placed strategically along the muddy trails.

When we arrived at the uma (longhouse) for our first night's stay, three daughters were preparing our dinner. The dwindling supply of wildlife has forced them to become near vegetarians except during ceremonies when a sacrificial pig or chicken is made. These days their daily diet consists mainly of sago, a woody pulp mixed with coconut and sugar wrapped in banana leaf. For wood, it was quite tasty.

I looked up at the rafters admiring their interior decor of numerous skulls from previous feasts. The Mentawai, in honor of the animals’ spirit, paid respect to the sacrificial food by blessing their souls believed to be contained within the heads. Over the years the family had amassed an impressive collection of monkey, hornbill and wild boar skulls.
I thanked them for the roasted sago, showed my gratitude (passed out more cigarettes) and exited to the front of the uma to observe the sikerei(shaman) playing with his grandson, a naked little emperor wearing a sago stained smile.

The shaman sported the usual all-body tattoos against his sun-weathered torso, strands of yellow and red beaded necklaces and a feathered head decoration. A kapit made from pounded taggaro bark was wrapped tightly around his privates. Only his red vinyl bum pack with the white Adidas logo seemed a bit out of place. One could trace their exposure to modern man by the fashion accessories offered by previous travelers.

As the designated sikerei, his responsibilities in accordance with their animistic beliefs, included the blessing and cleansing of houses and people from evil spirits. If illness descended upon a tribe member a sikerei was called upon to force the evil spirits away. However, in regards to common ailments such as an infected foot, head lice or conjunctivitis, they sought miracle pills from jungle trekkers in passing.

Like New York City, the jungle never sleeps. The ambient noise of cicadas, frogs, geckos and the nearby stream contrasted with the surround sound of the gastrointestinal release of eight burly western men digesting stalks of roasted tree pulp. Chickens clucked, dogs barked and pigs squealed fighting for food scraps underneath the floorboards. As the moon rose, the witching hour approached, candles were lit and our hosts became animated with a tabacco buzz.

By nightfall our mosquito tents miraculously appeared. We scrambled to strategically place our bodies furthest away from the snorers, farters, rowdy jungle night owls, the chicken coup and the most trafficked pathway. I was the last to claim my spot. My position was dead center, front row from the chickens, negative five centimeters beside the jungle porter, the family dog at my feet, and underneath the following day's dinner hanging in a basket above my head.

By 4am, the roosters began their morning calls. Their discordant sqawks cued the family to congregate to the veranda for chicken watching. To protect the fowl from predators, The Mentawai placed bamboo rods against the trees. The chickens were trained to walk along the bamboo to reach the top of the trees where they slept in the evenings. At dawn, like factory workers punching the clock, one by one in single file line, the chickens walked down the rods. The spectacle excited the family dogs to bark, growl and fight amongst each other. The jungle symphony reached a crescendo with the added chorus of early morning snoring.

One by one we came out of our tents. I could hear the low-whispered tribal chants, ‘see-ga-lette! see-ga-lette! see-ga-lette!’

In the morning, I prayed for normal bowels. Personal business became a public affair by a supporting audience cheering your success upon return. Before leaving the uma, a private moment required a walking stick to place in the mud to balance yourself from falling. In the other hand you needed a shorter stick to keep the wild starving pigs from having a jump-start at your 'waste'. If that was not enough to make you nervous, your hosts were peering behind the trees to catch a glimpse of a foreigner's uncovered bottom. Their solution to environmentally sound toilet paper was the family dog’s tongue. However, to my relief, this practice only applied to toddlers. I would not be able to manage a third stick for the dogs. As each member returned from the bush, a round of applause would be cued by the phrase, 'Yeah, I did it!'

Afternoon excitement included a poison arrow demonstration. The shaman gave the honors of concocting a poison cooking class followed by his rusty skills of target practice. The team jested at the close proximity of his target.
‘If he turns around maybe he can aim for the house!’ ‘Maybe the coconut is too close!’ ‘Perhaps the coconut is too small’. I, too, was aiming for a good shot. Quickly, I snapped a frame of the crew standing in a row with nine 35mm cameras in front of their faces and a laughing Shaman in midst of a third miss.

After 10 days of being surrounded by near naked people covered in symbolic tattoos signifying status and milestones, I took a stab at the pounding needle on a stick. Mixing kerosene residue with cane sugar in a coconut shell, the local tattoo man diligently created an authentic Mentawai symbol-'balance' to my lower back with a wooden stick and my safety pin attached. These two lines one perpendicular to the other would sum up my adventures in the jungle with the last remaining tribes of Indonesia. I would learn, as trite as it sounds-that life is a balance; Challenge would partner with joy. I could easily slip on my rubber shoes, relinquish all modern amenities for that delicate taste we call primitive life.

This was a first class sleeper. 2 to a single bed.