Martin says, “They are expecting us.” When, thirty seconds later, we hear the distant sounds of a welcoming party, I look over at Martin and think of Spock, his deep Vulcan wisdom, always right and always three steps ahead of his earthly comrades. Then again, I know the ring of a telemarketer a mile off, so it makes sense that Martin is tuned in to the greeting rituals of his home turf. As we close in on our destination, a collaboration of gongs and drums begins to overtake the jungle’s cacophony of cicadas.
We round a gentle curve on the snaking river highway and see a headman, or
tuai rumah,
walking down a planked pier followed by a dozen boys, women with babies on their hips, and excited children. The headman is small and must be seventy; lithe and bent, but not at all decrepit. On his shoulders are swirling floral and reptile tattoos. He is wearing a flamboyant arching warrior headdress decorated with enormous black and white feathers of the locally revered hornbill, a species no longer found in these rain forests. We have heard of this sacred welcome ritual, called a
bedora,
but didn’t expect we’d earned such a greeting—which is clearly camera-worthy.
Unfortunately, to be dignified and move fast at the same time is the rare province of Bolshoi ballerinas, successful NASA liftoffs, and, occasionally, Nelson Mandela, but hardly ever film crews in boats.
CANOE #1
I stand too quickly and Martin lunges for my ankles to keep the canoe from tipping over. I will the headman’s eye contact to me so he does not notice the frantic fumbling about that is emanating from Canoe #2.
CANOE #2
“Goddammit, start filming.”
“Bugger, the battery just died. Get another, quick.”
“We don’t know how long this will laaaast.” The obvious is stated with friendly Brit urgency.
“Martin,” Vanessa queries with a nervous smile toward Canoe #1, “do you think the headman would do it again for us?”
He looks at her blankly.
We clamber
out of the canoes and follow the welcoming procession up the walkway to the longhouse, which stretches into the distance like an army barrack, but is much more inviting—especially as it rests on wooden stilts. Stilts, meant to protect the house from floods and animals, are surely the friendliest of architectural elements.
The longhouse is the traditional communal living structure, home to approximately fifteen families and up to a hundred people. We climb a wooden ladder to reach the first of three primary areas: a “porch” that stretches the length of the structure and is exposed to the outdoors. This is the area where clothes hang to dry, visitors arrive, and muddy shoes are removed. The second is a screened avenue, or gallery, that also runs along the length of the building, and has a bamboo floor. The gallery seems to be where life happens: One woman is in a distant corner mending a fishing net while another is weaving an intricate cloth with a wood loom; children romp around, excited by the prospect of visitors.
The third area, which we have yet to see, is beyond a rattan wall, and is the families’ individual cooking and sleeping quarters. Under the structure reside, according to my keen olfactory and auditory sleuthing skills, pigs and chickens.
I say good afternoon to an older woman who is sitting on the floor with a red and yellow sarong knotted above her breasts, husking rice.
“Salamat tongah-hari.”
“Rindu amat betemu enggau nuan,”
she responds in kind with a blood-red smile, and then spits between the slats in the floorboards, adding betel-nut juice to the menagerie below.
“You are our honored guests and the festivities will begin soon,” says the headman, with Martin translating.
Our ungraceful arrival was hardly honorable, but clearly Vanessa and Martin had done their groundwork. My expectations for the evening are high after having read
Rajahs and Rebels
by a guy named Robert Pringle, who wrote in 1970, “A vigorous tradition of hospitality has
We round a gentle curve on the snaking river highway and see a headman, or
tuai rumah,
walking down a planked pier followed by a dozen boys, women with babies on their hips, and excited children. The headman is small and must be seventy; lithe and bent, but not at all decrepit. On his shoulders are swirling floral and reptile tattoos. He is wearing a flamboyant arching warrior headdress decorated with enormous black and white feathers of the locally revered hornbill, a species no longer found in these rain forests. We have heard of this sacred welcome ritual, called a
bedora,
but didn’t expect we’d earned such a greeting—which is clearly camera-worthy.
Unfortunately, to be dignified and move fast at the same time is the rare province of Bolshoi ballerinas, successful NASA liftoffs, and, occasionally, Nelson Mandela, but hardly ever film crews in boats.
CANOE #1
I stand too quickly and Martin lunges for my ankles to keep the canoe from tipping over. I will the headman’s eye contact to me so he does not notice the frantic fumbling about that is emanating from Canoe #2.
CANOE #2
“Goddammit, start filming.”
“Bugger, the battery just died. Get another, quick.”
“We don’t know how long this will laaaast.” The obvious is stated with friendly Brit urgency.
“Martin,” Vanessa queries with a nervous smile toward Canoe #1, “do you think the headman would do it again for us?”
He looks at her blankly.
We clamber
out of the canoes and follow the welcoming procession up the walkway to the longhouse, which stretches into the distance like an army barrack, but is much more inviting—especially as it rests on wooden stilts. Stilts, meant to protect the house from floods and animals, are surely the friendliest of architectural elements.
The longhouse is the traditional communal living structure, home to approximately fifteen families and up to a hundred people. We climb a wooden ladder to reach the first of three primary areas: a “porch” that stretches the length of the structure and is exposed to the outdoors. This is the area where clothes hang to dry, visitors arrive, and muddy shoes are removed. The second is a screened avenue, or gallery, that also runs along the length of the building, and has a bamboo floor. The gallery seems to be where life happens: One woman is in a distant corner mending a fishing net while another is weaving an intricate cloth with a wood loom; children romp around, excited by the prospect of visitors.
The third area, which we have yet to see, is beyond a rattan wall, and is the families’ individual cooking and sleeping quarters. Under the structure reside, according to my keen olfactory and auditory sleuthing skills, pigs and chickens.
I say good afternoon to an older woman who is sitting on the floor with a red and yellow sarong knotted above her breasts, husking rice.
“Salamat tongah-hari.”
“Rindu amat betemu enggau nuan,”
she responds in kind with a blood-red smile, and then spits between the slats in the floorboards, adding betel-nut juice to the menagerie below.
“You are our honored guests and the festivities will begin soon,” says the headman, with Martin translating.
Our ungraceful arrival was hardly honorable, but clearly Vanessa and Martin had done their groundwork. My expectations for the evening are high after having read
Rajahs and Rebels
by a guy named Robert Pringle, who wrote in 1970, “A vigorous tradition of hospitality has
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