Holy Men, Holy Women 13 — Gawai 2

This is where they prayed to the gods. — Picture by Dina ZamanJULY 20 — Kampung Grogo, like many Bidayuh villages in semi-urban Sarawak, is situated on a hill. It’s a nondescript village, but not an uninteresting one. Aside from the fact that it housed some of the few Dayung Boris left in the community, Grogo had also been in the news of late.

Websites such as Suabetong and Sarawak Mirror had highlighted the villagers’ demand for their land to be returned to them, since no compensation was given to them when their land was acquired by the government years ago. In April 2011, Berita Harian reported that the issue had been settled. Grogo residents could now sigh in relief, knowing that they were no longer squatting.

Perhaps that was another cause for celebration for Grogo. They had a good rice harvest, and they also got back some of their land. In any case, there was no mention of land rights during Gawai.

I had been living with Sumuk’s family in the most pink house I had ever visited. From the curtains to cushion covers, right up to the crocheted table doilies, everything was pink. Much as I appreciated their hospitality, it felt like living in a pink birthday cake.

The overt femininity somehow clashed with the matriarch’s calling as a priestess. Her daughters and grandchildren had little to do with the rituals, and preferred it that way. To heal a village, and participate in gruelling rituals, and manage a family, were just too much. Perhaps, it was much better to be pink.

Sumuk was at the Rumah Gawai with the other priestesses, heralding Gawai. Her son-in-law, a husky former police officer who now worked for a hotel, encouraged me to rest. “The next few nights, we’ll be staying up, and on the last night, we’ll be up the whole night to witness Gawai.”

He couldn’t elaborate more on the festival, as it was too much for him to understand. To be a holy person was a lot of work, was all he could say. And Gawai was expensive; the foods, the materials and event — the cost rose every year.

The first night I spent at the Rumah Gawai, the helpers all spoke of how expensive it was to hold Gawai each year. A young man, who had acted as a de facto guide that night, told me that they no longer made tuak. They bought beer from the supermarket because it was cheaper and more convenient.

So it was not just Islam and Christianity that offered salvation and convenience from heathen beliefs. Inflation was another reason: the Gods were too expensive.

Sumuk’s son-in-law shook his head. “This adat is hard to do. But you have to do it properly because if you make a mistake, adat ini akan makan diri. It will eat you up.”

Sumuk’s daughter, Dot, had given birth to her eldest child when Sumuk received her calling. She remembered her mother being always ill. Then one day, Sumuk was healed and told them that she had a Bunian husband, and from that day, began healing others.

“Yes,” Sumuk cut in. She had come back from the Rumah Gawai for a short respite from prayers. She had been gravely ill for several years. She went insane, her body ached, her family worried.

Up and down on a monthly basis she visited the local hospital, to pay exorbitant hospital bills for a mysterious illness. After observing her for so long, Sumuk’s father had an inkling that she could be a priestess in the making, so he had her dressed in a priestess’s costume. Barbie priestess was created and she was cured.

Would I like to see her Bunian husband’s home, Sumuk asked me. She led me to a smaller room by the side of the living room and pointed to a wooden carving, which hung from the ceiling. The carving resembled a wavy cage.

Sumuk’s Bunian husband lives here. — Picture by Dina Zaman“That’s where my spirit husband lives.” Every year, on the last night of Gawai, she and her spirit husband would meet. She would also meet her two spirit children. He was very handsome, very fit and lean, she told me.

“Does Babai get jealous?” I had to know.

“No,” she laughed. When she was on the way to becoming a priestess, she led a celibate life and had no contact with her human husband for a year. He had practice.

There were hardly any people in the Rumah Gawai that afternoon. Dr P was resting, and chatting animatedly with the other priests. One of the female helpers was carrying a chicken upside-down. Outside the rumah, a wild boar was trapped in a cage, and both the chicken and boar sported a resigned look: yes, we know we’ll be slaughtered for the gods, so why don’t you just hurry up and kill us, like now?

The priests and priestesses were planning a trip to the river in the evening, and there were many things to prepare. Dr P flitted and bounced about in the room, before settling down next to me for a breather.

It all started with his late grandmother who was a Bidayuh priestess. Like many Bidayuh men eager to see the world, the old rituals and beliefs were forgotten.

Dr P was an idealistic doctor who then found himself getting more involved in Sarawak politics. The physical and material worlds meant more to him, as he sought to save his state and people.

Hence this new-found path as a healer. Was this an escape from a declining political career? Could there be more than just wanting to reclaim his roots?

“One time, I was in politics then. I went for a walk in the jungle and felt a sharp prick in my knee. Like a knife! I hobbled back to my clinic and inspected my leg. As a doctor I could not find anything wrong with it.

And right next to where they prayed was a housing development. — Picture by Dina Zaman“The pain was so bad that I could not see my patients and be with my people. In desperation, I went to see a dukun. All he did was touch my knee and extracted a bone. Two hours after the bone was removed, the pain went away. How do you explain that?” he said, squinting at the memory.

Bidayuh healing, Dr P explained, as he brushed off the dirt from his trousers, did not treat communicable diseases. “Only if it involves black magic or anything paranormal. Then it works.”

A wizened old man was fast asleep on the floor. Dr P pointed at him. “He, he can heal. Black magic. Bad intentions.”

The healer snored.

At about five in the evening, everyone got up from their resting areas, to prepare for the ceremony. One of the priests barked at a young boy, and motioned to the gongs. The boy dashed off. The priestesses put on their clothes. It had been a long two days of praying and they were feeling it.

Sumuk’s granddaughter, Pat, joined us. She wanted to witness the river ceremony. Prior to the ceremony, the priests and priestesses had to visit a spot in the woods for a blessing before they went to the river, she said. Her seven-year-old niece grabbed hold of my hand, and off we went, to witness the procession.

It made for an odd and also uncomfortable observation, seeing the ageing priests with a spry Dr P behind them, walk up and down the hill to the sparse jungle, and passing a housing area. The onlookers didn’t seem interested in the procession.

And then we arrived at a small spot, by the fringes of the woods, opposite a small link house. Truth be told, we were smack next to a new development. There was no real jungle.

Sumuk called out to Pat.

“Wait here,” she told me. “I’ve got to find the gondang players.”

Sumuk came over, looking quite distressed. “We can’t pray without the gondang. The gods need music.”

What happened to last night’s gondang players then?

A man from one of the houses shouted at the priests. He disappeared into the house, and then came out. Pat arrived but this time with a few of the gondang players. Sumuk shook her head and went back to the group.

Dr P asked out aloud, “Where are the gondang?”

The boys groaned, and ran off to the village.

Pat was apologetic. “Before… we had real, proper gondang players. But now, times are modern, so not many are interested in playing gondang anymore.”

“So who plays now?”

“The old ones play on the last night, but the ones you saw are young, and they play when they feel like it. They find this boring.”

Once upon a time, Kampung Grogo was renowned for its Gawai celebrations, said Pat. People came to study their rituals and participate in them too. Her grandmother and fellow priestesses were revered greatly. She used to act as an usher for visitors and tourists during Gawai. But now, everything is muted. Again the cost of Gawai cropped up.

“But it’s not just the rising costs that’s killing Gawai, it’s also who administers the village. If the village head is active…” Pat trailed off.

Priests on their way to a ritual prior to the river ceremony. — Picture by Dina ZamanJudging by the texts I received from friends celebrating Gawai all around Sarawak, the festival was different at each village. A friend had visited a Christian Bidayuh village which had started partying since 10 in the morning. She and her friends were quite drunk already. Another friend who went to visit Duyoh, wrote in his text, to say that it was like being at Woodstock. Massive parties and the village rock bands had descended upon Duyoh. Gawai was what you made it.

There were shouts up from a hill, and squeals of delight. Young gondang players had been found, and they ran down the hill to be with the priests and priestesses, with their gongs and drums. Within minutes, the familiar rhythm of a gondang set could be heard faintly, before it became louder and louder. Cars drove past and curious onlookers stared at the old men and women calling out for the gods on a tiny patch of dirt and grass beside a sparse forest.

This was Gawai in Grogo.

***

I met up with Dr P in Kuala Lumpur, a few days after Gawai. I almost missed him as we passed each other in the lobby. He was in the city, on a “political” errand. The priest’s hat had come off. Dr P was dressed in a suit.

Why were you doing this, I asked him.

He picked at his lunch, and then looked away. After a few seconds, he looked at me, and spoke.

“When human knowledge is limited by existing beliefs, humans suffer. Knowing what is known does not help us for today or tomorrow.”

“All this philosophising, what bearing does it have on modern life?”

“Listen. With Abrahaimic religions, we are constrained by the limited knowledge the faiths tell us to abide by and obey. We are bigger than religions. It is not the haram or kafir which loses, it is the person who thinks so.”

He smiled.

“I am excited by what I don’t know. I don’t see this as magic. It’s a gift from God. It is not evil. The healing I do is not that.”

He got up from the table, as he prepared to leave for his appointment.

“Imagine. The world is so much bigger than what we know now. Aren’t you excited?” he beamed, his hands stretched out.

* The writer’s bi-monthly column on religious communities in Malaysia, will be more comprehensive when it appears in a book, which should be published sometime early 2013. 

* The views expressed here are the personal opinion of the columnist.