In the previous episode after a few weeks of break of our publication, the missionary found himself swept along by the rhythm of other people’s lives, staying put while the New Year celebrations came and went around him. He ate when invited, waited when told, and learned quickly that nothing happened until it was meant to. There were long days of visiting, polite smiles, full tables, and tired evenings, and all the while he was quietly finding his place, watching, listening, and realising that this adventure was as much about patience as it was about travel.
Mill Hill Missionaries have always attached great importance to education and had developed in their big centres secondary schools which had achieved great status. St. Joseph’s, Kuching: Sacred Heart, Sibu: and St. Joseph’s, Miri carried the burden of private secondary education for the whole of Sarawak, together with the Franciscan Sisters (Mill Hill) in Kuching and Sibu. The bishop could never spare more than 2 or 3 priests to work in them; parish work as the priority. Most parishes had primary school which was sometimes run by the junior priest. Eventually the bishop saw that this work was too important for the fathers to maintain, however successfully, and invited the De La Salle brothers from Singapore. They were able to take over the Kuching and Sibu schools which to this day are the outstanding schools in Sarawak. Miri remained in Mill Hill hands. When the schools were opened in Brunei State, they were under our control until eventually I was forced to leave the country. The tradition continued that the school fathers had to help in the parish and, when the numbers dwindled through retirement and immigration problems, the situation arose when one priest had to run both school and parish. That was much later.
The Seria parish was very thriving. Even before Vatican II, there was a parish council. The liturgy was well performed and masses were crowded. There was an adult Praesidium of the Legion of Mary and one for the school children. The First Communion on the patron feast on the 8th December was a beautiful event as was the Corpus Christi Procession, both organised by the sisters. The sanctuary was spacious, ideal for a big function like Confirmation. It was a busy life. School began at 7 a.m and finished at 1 pm. Parish activities, meetings and visits took place in the afternoon and evening. Home was far away.
The first term hastened to a close. Term tests were nearly on us. St. Michael’s was a teacher-friendly school. Leo was held in great awe by staff and students alike but he was not good on detail, such as timetables and lists. The secondary staff being smaller could quickly decide among themselves the order of subjects for the exams but some of the primary staff has been around a long time and had some kind of divine right to having their subjects first on the timetable so that they had a longer time to do the marking. No one dared to inform Leo of all this. I had therefore a great opportunity to observe quietly and, when my time came, I saw that everything was fairly distributed. Even then the old-timers thought I could not be serious and still tried to swop around for their own convenience. In the end, we became an all-teachers friendly school.
In the midst of all this end of term work there came a letter from the bishop. He invited me to join him on a visit to Long San, our furthest mission on the Baram River for the celebration of one of their big feasts. Long Tikang where the feast was to be held was the longhouse of the Paramount Chief of the Kenyahs and Kayans, Oyo Lawai. It was to be a Naming Day for all the children of the house, an event that took place only every five years or so.
Not neglecting my pastoral duties of saying mass on Sunday, I went down to Miri where I met the bishop and we took the small plane to Marudi, a journey of 15 minutes but by launch several hours. The river at this part formed a huge ox-bow lake, with almost a complete circle, winding through swamp land. Fisher, the 4th Division Resident, was on the plane as was the famous Jackie Yong, entrepreneur, speedboat pioneer and convicted murderer. For this he had been brought to trial, found guilty but in the chaos at the end of the war he acquitted himself. Fisher, very impressed, declared that he had never in his long years travelled with a bishop, a priest and a murderer.
We walked across the grass landing strip to the mission house, built on the river bank, with every sign of being about to topple at any moment. It was an old, ramshackle sort of biggish hut with creaking floorboards the accommodation was of the simplest, just a step higher than a dormitory. The next year there was talk of a visit from the Governor on his travels. The parish priest had suggested to his assistanf that the cobwebs should be swept away. The assistant argued against this saying that it was the cobwebs that were holding the house together. We were not due to stay overnight for the boat was waiting for us.
River travel always has to depend on the state of the water; during the rainy season, the waters come tumbling down at a great speed which makes the river un-navigable. In the dry spell, the water is low and again the boats cannot make progress. The water has to be just right and then there has to be no delay. We had to use a longboat because the river further up became dangerous with rapids and a Chinese launch could not make it. Usually a longboat could be anything from 20-30 feet long, and about 4 feet wide, allowing people to sit 2-abreast. There was food and petrol for the longhouse. A zinc sliding roof gave us shelter from the sun and rain. Our boat needed the power of the two 40-h.p engines. The papal flag flew from the prow to inform everyone on the river that this was the Catholic Mission boat; the headmen always hoisted their own flag. It was in a way an identification mark. We roared out into mid-stream and set course for our adventure.
After all the busy days in school and parish, I was so relieved to be able to stretch out my legs and absorb the peacefulness of the river and the jungle. There were about ten others with us, so that we were not squeezed for space. Perhaps we were doing a mere 10 m.p.h. but it was fast enough; speedboats were just making their appearance, mostly used by government officials but speed can be every bit as dangerous on the river as on the roads. Then there was a new smell, slightly sour, from the exposed roots of the trunks that soared high; there were lianas and wild orchids to be seen through the thick foliage. It was such a gentle scene, static perhaps for the past hundreds of years. We passed the estuaries of little tributaries; I looked up at little glens and wondered what lay beyond. But the needs of the journey did not allow for sightseeing.
The sun began to slant behind us, as the long afternoon wore on, not that there was much difference in the humidity. We passed the village of Long Lama, the destination of the launches, a Chinese settlement, with a handful of shops and a few government officials. The following year, I happened to be there again and met the village dentist who was also the mechanic for outboard engines. I think he used the same tools for both jobs. But I do remember him rubbing the grease off his hands with a rag before going to extract a tooth.
We did not stop but went chugging on. I knew we had to stop before dark and presumed that perhaps the accommodation in Long Lama which we had just passed was not up to our standard and that we were heading for something grander. Not long afterwards we stopped at a very simple longhouse where we were to spend the night. The bishop was a big man but he kept his balance admirably going up the tree trunk to the house. We were warmly greeted by everyone, ranged along the veranda. Here was the bishop in his natural element. He spent much of his time learning something of the many dialects spoken throughout his vicariate and could get by in most places. In the Baram, the home of the Kenyahs and Kayans, each house had its own language. To outsiders, however, they were regarded as one people, who lived in peace with one another.
This was my real introduction to longhouse life; the house was big, well-built, spacious and fairly clean, so different from my first visit to Rumah Pidek at Sibuti soon after my arrival. The food was always rice and here we had a chicken, not sufficiently boiled because of the slow fire but we were hungry after a long day on the river. Rarely did I ever get a satisfactory meal in a longhouse, nor did I expect one. They gave us of their poverty. Some of the priests carried a few tins with them to augment the ration, but from my experience most ate what was put before them.
The bishop was very keen on the local culture and did his best to keep it alive among the young ones. The danger was always that with the coming of secondary education into the area the teenagers would be absent at a crucial time in their lives and would come to neglect their rich traditions. After the simple meal, a few toasts were drunk in our honour in poetry or song; we were expected to drain the glass which was offered to us. In time to come, I learned the many ways of avoiding this without offending against the laws of hospitality. The rice wine could be quite sour if not properly fermented, but on occasions it could be almost unrecognisable from saki, the Japanese wine.
Then the musicians began tuning up. The common instrument is the sapay, a two-stringed guitar; then there is a whole family of brass gongs, each with its own note, and bamboo flutes. The melody remained with me all the time I was in the Baram; even today, I still hear the first notes sounding on the verandah, out across the silent river. One of the men donned a head-dress with the black and white feathers of the hornbill, put on a protective waistcoat and armed himself with the famous short sword of the warrior. To the music he began to strut up and down, chin out in a most aggressive fashion, facing in turn the four corners. This was his challenge to all-comers. He simulated all the actions of a fight, cutting and thrusting, stabbing. In what was a grand finale, he twirled the sword just inches above the bishop’s head, with extreme accuracy. The bishop did not forget to duck. And all the time he demonstrated the most intricate steps with the greatest economy of movement. It was a most impressive performance. And to think, that any one of the men in that house could have done just as well.
Now it was the ladies’ turn. One of them advanced, with another type of head-dress, the feathers much smaller, wearing a black dress with an apron hung with coins and medallions. Her necklace, bangles, anklets gleamed in the dull light of the oil lamps. Her dance imitated the hovering of a bird, which she indicated with the fluttering of feathers attached to her wrists. Her gentle movements were just as impressive as the violence of the warrior before her.
At this point the guests were expected to offer some contribution to the party. The bishop as chief guest donned the head-dress and began to move to the music, waving the sword in the air. Each of us made some attempt; it was not done to refuse. I suppose their thinking was that everyone could dance and, if he could not, well what kind of upbringing was that? A party in the longhouse was always enjoyable; everything depended on the ingenuity of the organisers; there were dance competitions, song and poetry contests, blowpipe matches, knock-about just like a Hallowe’en party.
Gradually, the numbers became thinner, as the older people drifted away and the verandah began to clear. I found a place, got hold of my handbag and propped it up as a pillow and went to sleep. But sleep was not undisturbed; the dogs quarrelled and snapped, babies were wakened, cocks crew and pigs grunted and snorted under the house. When dawn came, I got up with relief but not refreshed. We had to start early for another long day lay ahead. The driver was already waiting for us. I seated myself gingerly in the boat, weary, unwashed, with the early morning dampness of the rain forest all around. But the party was not over yet. The youngsters came down with bags of flour and asked us to rub it on to their faces, while they did likewise to us. Of course it was not flour that we got but soot which they were holding behind their back. With black faces, we set out, to the great amusement of the whole house.
Next week as the river tightens and the jungle leans in, he feels an unease he can’t quite name, as though something is waiting beyond the next bend. Long San is spoken of quietly, with half-finished stories and knowing looks—a place shaped by faith, secrets, and unseen pressures. Nothing dramatic announces what is coming, only the sense that once he arrives, the world he knows will begin, slowly and silently, to tilt.
