In all honesty, my earliest memories date back to circa late 1957 or early 1958 when I was being carried by Apai Badey, whose real name was Saban Imong. I was put on his shoulder, a statement that I was a tiny and light toddler. However, I am not so sure whether I was clothed or not.
Just a friend of the family and probably a doting distant relative, Saban, who died at an old age some years ago, was among many interesting characters that I came across since that moment of him carrying me along the open gallery ‘ruai’ of our longhouse at Kedap, now known as Tembawai Libas, just a few meters away from our present Kedap longhouse site.
Tembawas Libas was the first of my only three longhouse dwellings since birth. I came to know Saban better when we moved from that longhouse to another one known simply as Kedap and now as ‘Tembawai Tebing Ai’ that we abandoned in favour of the present one in 1992.
Born and bred at the nearby Mendas longhouse, the father of six was a kind individual and a keen follower and member of my late father‘s team of about seven bards in Kedap. He later recorded the ‘renung,’ Iban traditional equivalent of love songs in RTM in the 70s.
What made him a remarkable character was not his talent as a bard but his usually hilarious reactions to happenings around him. He was a very likeable individual and was never sober during Gawai Dayak and other celebrations but was harmless and funny under the influence of alcohol.
A first cousin of my maternal grandma, Ngelambai Rembuyan who also died of old age in the 70s was another interesting character. It was my granduncle Ngelambai who was my poker ‘ala longhouse’ sifu.
A few of us cousins aged between 9 and 11 years old became his poker protégés, using rubber bands as bets. Later, others joined in the game too, including a few adults. But it was Ngelambai who played the pivotal role in introducing the poker game to us longhouse kids.
He was also good at storytelling. Despite the sweaty smell of his ‘tajung’ waist cloth, kids did not mind sitting next to him to enjoy his tales about Iban folklore.
Above all, Ngelambai was told by a deity in his dream that he was capable of ‘makai burung and mimpi’ (neutralizing bad omens and bad dreams) using a ritual. It was this skill that made him a public figure as far as residents of the Melupa River basin were concerned.
Among the cockfighting enthusiasts, he also cut a formidable figure with high bets due to his considerable resources. We, kids, would be too happy to gather around him the evening after a good cockfight outing as he was too eager to count his winnings at the open gallery ruai with the oil lamp readily available to provide light.
However, if he were to remain in his room and show no signs of counting any winning in the post-cockfight evening, that was a telling sign that the day’s outing was futile.
Uncle Ujih anak Untan, a first cousin of my father, was another interesting character. Stout and tough, he was a lead bard of ‘timang jalung’ performed during Gawai Antu (feast commemorating the dead), a role that was later taken over by my late dad.
Ujih was also told by a deity in his dream that he was given the power to heal ‘kayap’ or shingles (a kind of skin disease). Also, a keen poker – ala longhouse – player, Ujih was always featured in such games at festivals and cockfights, but more often as a ‘dealer’ whereby he would take a little ‘tax’ for every game, thereby always a winner.
In his earlier days, Ujih was accused of murder by shooting. This happened in the 40s before I was born but as a unique incident, the story was told again and again from generation to generation but probably stopped with ours.
After winning big in a game of poker in Munggu Embawang longhouse (my dad’s birthplace), the remotest settlement in the Melupa Basin, travelling Chinese vendors Moon Neh and Toh Ah from Saratok town happily left the longhouse to return home using a longboat.
Upon reaching Nanga Sungai Tapang stream, Moon Neh was hit by a bullet and fell from the boat as he was sitting at its stern.
Toh Ah on the boat’s front was shocked to see his friend falling to his death and jumped into the river to save himself, subsequently running and swimming downriver till he reached Kedap and told the folks there about the shooting that killed Moon Neh.
Days later, a team of policemen from Saratok went upriver and arrested Ujih. He was remanded in the police cell in Saratok but was told by his brother Limbing Untan and by my father not to plead guilty.
There was no evidence that he committed the shooting as no weapon was found, and he had no gun. So the British government did not have enough evidence to convict him.
Decades after the shooting and with the change of government, there were of course whispers here and there. Ujih graduated from a timang jalung bard to one who ‘drinks the jalung’ (ngirup jalung), a role only reserved for those with ‘dengah’ (head trophies).
When drunk, he would recount the Nanga Sungai Tapang tragedy that claimed Moon Neh’s life. The riverbank’s steep gradient after the stream’s mouth was an ideal ambush spot. Over seventy years ago, a fatal shooting occurred here. Moon Neh’s body was discovered downstream, at Lubuk Moon Neh, previously named Lubuk Lalang. In 1965, I spotted a huge ‘ikan tunggal’ carp there, the size of a 17kg Shell gas tank, with my nephew Endawi Anggun. This pool was my go-to fishing spot.
Ujih, nicknamed ‘ensumbar’, was fond of me and called me ‘anak’ (son). He admired my generosity during poker games in the 80s. Narong, aka Labang Lebus, a cockfighting enthusiast from Pelaie Ulu in Assam, stood out. Despite his betel nut habit, he commanded respect. His appearance and mannerisms reminded me of Lee Van Cleef and Nick Nolte.
Kandau anak Sagoh (1933-1987), a shy man, won the Penghulu post in 1966. He was Dinggu Salok’s husband, my late sister. His victory strained family relations, as my uncle Limbing Untan, a candidate, didn’t take the defeat well. A rift with my father ensued.
Kandau, a former classmate of State Secretary Datuk Abang Yusuf Puteh at Betong’s St Augustine Secondary School in the late 40s, declined a Sarawak Administrative Officer offer after finishing three years of secondary school. He dreamt of a spirit revealing his talent for designing and crafting household items. His rotan, wooden, and bamboo designs showcase his skill. His daughter, Sarai Kandau, a teaching graduate, inherits his talent along with my sister’s mat-making skill, creating baskets and handbags from fibre.
Shortly before his 1987 passing, Penghulu Kandau was set to become Pemanca but couldn’t be sworn in due to his demise. Among the intriguing individuals I encountered was ‘sudi’ Manang Chundi, a skilled shaman known for his humour. In 1966, he performed a ‘belian’ chant on me after my mother’s ominous dream. Post-ritual, my ‘jengkal’ was measured longer, assuring me of a lengthy life, witnessed by my family in our Bukit Tinggi residence at the Melupa basin.
Chundi consistently recalls the mysterious ‘jengkal’ extension, a memorable event since the ritual.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
