Previously, the missionary had been swept up in the rush of school and parish life, only to be summoned by the bishop for a journey upriver to the Baram, where they traded the neat order of timetables for the thrum of a longboat under a papal flag, an uneasy night in a longhouse full of music, proud dances and sour rice wine, and a dawn departure with soot on their faces—setting the tone for the hard miles ahead and the faith that would have to travel with them.
In the day’s journey that followed, we had ample opportunity to make up for lost sleep, so that there was little sight-seeing on that day. We ate cracker biscuits and other small bites and drank coke and slept and read, as we made our way deep into the jungle. I always had the thought that I was a kind of pioneer. Very few government people would venture thus far; few even of the priests were ever free enough to come here from the coast. I think I must have started a trend for in time most of the priests in the vicariate came to do this trip. We stopped in the afternoon at a small house for the bishop to say hello to the people; they gave us small packets of rice wrapped in bamboo leaves. Of course they wanted us to stay but we had to be further on before nightfall. Again, it was timed nicely that we stopped for the night at a longhouse. We were tired and thankfully we were not asked to undergo a repeat performance of last night. This time sheer tiredness made me sleep through all the disturbances of dogs, babies, cocks, pigs and next morning felt more refreshed and ready for the final day.
It was also our third day on the water. I was longing to get to my destination. The boat, although roomy by the standards of the Baram, was very confining. There was reading and sleeping, the latter being fitful for fear I should miss some great sight of perhaps a wild animal like a boar or a little pelandok, ( the mouse deer ), famed in Borneo fables. I knew already what to expect; the last big bend of the river, and there was this huge compound, the mission of Long San. The most remarkable feature among the group of buildings was the Church of St Pius X, with its twin spires, remarkably similar to what I would see later at the Church of St.James at Medjugorje. Alongside was the fathers’ house, a primary school with a hostel for the pupils, a convent for the Little Sisters of Sarawak, who ran a maternity clinic; a hostel for the girls made up the rest. This was all the work of one man, Brother Alex. When one considers the handicap of distance from the coast, the limited resources of money and the lack of skilled manpower, it was truly in its own way a wonder of our Borneo world. Of course the buildings were simple in the extreme but functional, devoid of any kind of decoration or attempt at comfort.
Alex had been attached to North Borneo before the war; the bishop had sent him from place to place to build. Later when I had the chance to visit there, I soon learned to recognise his handiwork; no doubt his churches and houses were similar in design, but it was the very proliferation throughout the Vicariate that made one admire his industry and patience. Although he had received training at home, he never seemed to bother with blue-prints. It was all lodged somewhere behind that perpetually perspiring forehead. He was a very simple man himself, the, typical Mill Hill Brother, living a life of practical poverty, asking little and giving everything. I came to know him well when I was appointed to Marudi where he was living in what was laughingly called ” retirement”. He had been interned like all the other priests, brothers and sisters by the Japanese and emerged at the end of the war so ill that the doctors would not risk sending him back to Europe. He spent two years in Australia where he built up his health again and, like all the Borneo men, insisted on going back. He was posted to what would become the new vicariate of Miri; he continued his pre-war occupation of building both in Long San and in Marudi.
The Baram was a great attraction to professors of all academic disciplines from overseas. These men would come and after a few weeks, perhaps a few months, would return to their university to produce a blockbuster to shatter the peace of academe, no doubt today this same book lying covered with dust. This Japanese professor arrived at the mission in Marudi to study some local dialect; he himself had no English, we could not communicate with him except by gestures. One evening Alex got up from table and strutted stiff-legged across the room. He barked out some order in what was presumably Japanese. Then he scanned an imaginary audience and bawled at them. He quickly changed places and was now part of this unseen group; he began to shuffle his feet, measuring himself off with these invisble neighbours and began to call out numbers in Japanese. It was so funny to see; the professor, obviously, was very embarrassed for it was plain to all that this was a scene from real life, the life of the prison camp. Alex thought this was great fun but we dare not laugh and offend our guest.
The rooms in the Long San house were simply furnished; the downstairs rooms were multi-purpose. A generator provided electricity from 6.p.m. till 9.30 each night and at 9, a bell was rung to remind those who had not yet finished their Divine Office or their letters to get a move on.
Although Long San was the furthest away of our missions, deep in the jungle, it was by no means the last habitation. The mission was actually central for the many longhouses both downriver and upriver. The two priests were worked off their feet, with travelling to say mass, looking after the school, cultivating, repairing their engines. These Long San priests were rarely to be seen on the coast, except for retreat; the cost of travelling was very high.
The mission was a great financial burden on the bishop. Nevertheless he had dedicated himself to the rural people and their culture; he regarded the maintenance of this mission as essential to the credibility of his vicariate. The bishop in Kuching had recognised the practical impossiblity of his caring for the remote missions in the 4th and 5th Divisions and had urged this split. It was very isolated. Everything had to be transported from the coast by boat; petrol was almost double the Miri price, where it was dear enough already and where Shell was actually producing it in torrents. -one of the great mysteries of life.
The senior priests who were privy in any way to the vicariate’s financial state often asked how Long San could be maintained at its current cost. There was no income then; the people were poor farmers and had as yet not been initiated into the concept of giving. The mission had been built close to the longhouse of the Paramount Chief in recognition of his influence and also at his request; having become a Christian he had encouraged all the houses under him to follow. At this time, the Borneo Evangelical Mission had already converted a few houses. His own longhouse was a grand affair; he was getting subsidies from government and the timber companies but was not sufficiently trained in the Christian concept of social justice to realise that a chief also had responsibilities for the welfare of all his people. He and all his family were rich; they were quite happy to use their influence but not their money to help the church.
It was this that caused some misgivings in the minds of the older priests; the bishop was tireless in raising money for this mission, by writing articles, letters, sending photos, even personal visits to the USA and yet there was untapped wealth on the very doorstep. The Paramount Chief had been several times to Kuala Lumpur and London on govemment business prior to the founding of the new state of Malaysia. He had lived in luxury hotels courtesy of Whitehall; he probably had no reason to suppose that the MHM did not live likewise and could therefore easily afford to build a few villages and schools in his territory. Today this mission is no longer a burden on the local bishop; the priest is supported by his own parishioners. A further great saving has been the new roads built by the timber camps; this is preferable to the costly river travel.
The purpose of the bishop’s visit was to take part in the Naming Ceremony of all the children not only in the house of the Paraamount Chief but of the neighbouring ones as well. The house was full of guests, government officers, businessmen, photographers hoping to make money on the eventual sale of postcards among tourists on the coast. Lawai himself was a spectacle all on his own, even surpassing the lines of children assembled for the ritual. He was stocky like all the Kayans and a figure of authority especially when he was dressed up in traditional costume, which was a huge head-dress of hornbill feathers, with earrings, anklets, bangles; his dress was a loincloth and ornamental apron, blouse and warrior’s protective harness. His eyes twinkled, surprisingly youthful, and his lips always seemed to hover on a smile. He was a very genial man, sure of himself and conveyed authority in any company. He was born to rule and his word was obeyed to the letter in all the other houses of the Baram. But this pleasant face could be transformed in an instant into blazing anger. The colonial government like the Brookes before that ruled the country through men like him. He was much sought after by the British and the Malays from Kuala Lumpur to help bring Sarawak into the new State of Malaysia and was a signatory of the founding document.
The Naming Ceremony consisted in giving names to all the children, with a ritual patting on the head and smearing their faces with pig’s fata sign of prosperity. The Kenyahs and Kayans had a custom of renaming people in accord with their new status or position in the family; the eldest born, for example, would receive another name when his father died; an unmarried person would be renamed on getting married; a man would get a new name when he became a father. I imagine that inside the family, they would retain some name that would persist through the years. There was a clearly defined class system; some families were what is known as “bangsa tinggi” ( high family ) and others as “bangsa rendah” (low family).This had certain complications in accepting candidates for the priesthood. Inter-marriage between classes was not too common. These divisions were observed even by the small children at school. There was also in every house a sub-class, a kind of slave, who were expected to do the labouring and menial work for the others.
The ceremony was followed by dancing and singing of the highest standard because it was in the house of the Paramount Chief and he was very demanding. With so many outsiders, everyone strove to please. Indeed it was very memorable and enjoyable, made all the more so because all the longhouses were taking part and competitiveness was very evident. The feasting went on for a few more days but I was able to spend more time in the fathers’ house. The parish priest, Theo Oomen, I met him in Mill Hill, so we had lots to talk about, although for him, life did not stop. We ate with them and joined in their day to day existence, examined the compound, met the sisters and played the beautiful game with the youngsters.
Next week, the easy warmth of these “honeymoon years” gives way to something darker: a journey beyond the familiar stations and polite conversations, into country where the jungle keeps its own secrets and the past refuses to stay buried. Old friendships offer shelter, yes—but also unsettling reminders of what war can steal without leaving a trace, and how quickly comfort can turn to unease. Follow the missionary as he presses on, one lift, one train, one rough room at a time, towards places whose names carry history like a warning—and wait to see what is found when the road runs out.
Cover Photo: Long San Mission. Phot: Joseph Klotzner 1971
