The Plantation - Di Morrissey [78]
He nodded and turned, heading towards the longhouse.
As the Iban women walked back along the path carrying babies and watching their children frolicking, Julie asked Chitra about the man she’d seen.
‘A boat just came up. That’ll be Charles, Tuai James’s son. The old chief’s grandson. He works in Kuching in the police force.’
By now the visitors were becoming less of a novelty, and life in the longhouse proceeded as normal with the preparation of the evening meals and children to be fed and soothed, although it seemed to Julie the children were allowed to do as they wished and were not scolded. They clambered over the old people, played with the dogs and ran along the tanju squealing with joy. But Julie soon learned that the older children had tasks to do, carrying water, winnowing rice and picking out any fragments of husk, chopping wood, feeding the animals, and learning to repair the fishing nets.
‘Don’t they go to school?’ Julie asked Chitra.
She shrugged. ‘They are not forced to go. Travel is difficult and if they stay at a school in a town, the children don’t like to be away from their families. The old chief Jimbun is trying to keep the old ways going and because these people are so far away from any of the towns, it’s possible. But his son James is more inclined to value education, which is why his son Charles has such a good job.’
‘No TV, no radio, no internet, I suppose that helps this to stay a backwater,’ said Julie. ‘I feel really privileged to experience it, while I can.’
David came and sat beside them. ‘Yes, enjoy this while it’s still here. It’s a disappearing lifestyle. The cash economy is encroaching. The Iban grow rubber and pepper and sell woven cloth, blowpipes and carvings to traders but self- sufficiency is becoming harder. And the Iban also like modern things, like outboard motors and kerosene lamps.’
The meal, served on the woven floor mats, was made up of bowls of rice, dried fish, pieces of chicken and some root vegetables with fresh fruit. A bowl of water was passed to wash hands and then the food was shared. As darkness fell, oil lamps were lit. Some of the young girls, wearing glass bead necklaces, knelt in their short wrap skirts to play music on a set of small gongs.
As children fell asleep and the women sat in the background quietly talking, the tuak was brought out again and David, sitting close to Julie, said, ‘Take a sip and pass the rest to me. Just be glad it’s not a festival. These people know how to party. And dance!’
Charles had now changed out of his western clothes and into a checked sarong. He sat between his father and grandfather. Matthew and David began to ask James questions.
Julie listened, but also watched an old lady teaching a younger woman how to make the pua weavings with the intricate designs that had been handed down for generations. Matthew had told her that in the old days every man took a human head as a fertility rite, while every woman wove an heirloom blanket. Happily, he added, the men no longer take heads, but the weaving continues.
But tonight the talk was of tomorrow. And the tomorrows to come.
‘The government has moved some Iban longhouse communities,’ said David. ‘And apparently some of these people like the new settlements and the new-style modern longhouses.’
Tuai James shook his head. ‘That is true, but they no longer own their land, and they cannot practise the old ways of farming. The younger people go away to school and when they come back they do not always respect our customs. They are clumsy in the prau and have little knowledge of adat, the law.’
‘Four thousand people have been moved out,’ said David. ‘Surely your time will come too.’
Matthew looked at Charles. ‘The dams? That’s the biggest threat isn’t it?’
Julie turned to Chitra. ‘What dams?’ she asked.
But before Chitra could reply, old Tuai Rumah Jimbun began thumping the floor and shouting in poor, but very understandable, English, ‘We will not move! Come what may! We will