In the previous episode, the missionary visited a small Iban longhouse called Rumah Pidek, home to just six families. Life there was close-knit but sometimes divided by family quarrels or religious differences, leading groups to build new houses nearby. The children were thin and food was scarce, but everyone shared what little they had. In the evenings, families gathered for mass by the light of oil lamps, and the missionary learned about the Ibans’ customs, their strong sense of identity, and the challenges they faced adapting to new ways, especially when their children went off to bigger schools and struggled with homesickness and unfamiliar routines.
Once I met a British Army officer during the Indonesian Confrontation. His job was to train the local Border Scouts in markmanship. He was getting nowhere with them. One day as they moved through the jungle, they were faced with one of the most awesome sights in nature-a wild boar quivering with rage and ready to attack. He told me how his men calmly stood their ground and shot it dead. This was something real; this was the hunt; this would add to the joy of the feast. Target-practice to them was some kind of play-acting.
In those days the Ibans seemed to operate outside the system. They were scarcely to be seen in government offices or school staffrooms. The other tribes had very early seen the advantages of schooling and were now in effect ruling the Ibans. But in the years since, they have made haste to catch up.
Many anecdotes are told about the Ibans particularly about their skill in war. The following may well be apocryphal. The old chief is dying; his Christian wife and children persuade him that now he should become one with them in their faith. The old man agrees and the priest comes to give a short instruction. He approves so far. Then to tidy matters up, the priest asks him if he forgives his enemies. He is startled at this and shakes his head disapprovingly. The priest tries again and with the same strong reaction. Finally he is told that there is no way forward into the Christian religion if he cannot bring himself to forgive his enemies. The old man with an air of great patience says, “But, Father, I have no enemies. I killed them all long ago.”
Those few nights sitting in the longhouse were wonderful opportunities for me to listen and observe. I have a fair memory for faces. Somewhere I had seen those faces before. In my home town, Saturday afternoon was devoted to the cinema and full house was guaranteed if they were showing “Cowboys and Injuns”. Our Borneo Ibans migrated from north Asia, from the same area which the North American Indians had inhabited. To me the likeness was fascinating; the impassive cast-iron features, their colouring, even the women with their headbands and all this with their hunting and fighting skills. The British Army used them during the Communist Emergency in Sarawak and mainland Malaya in the 1950s and during the Confrontation they formed the First Malaysian Rangers. They are the largest tribal group in the Field Force, a military arm of the police, used in riots and jungle patrols.
Since my colleague had to be back in Miri for weekend duty, we said goodbye to the families and set off for the bazaar in the same little canoe. My relief at actually sitting on a chair in the coffee shop can only be imagined. Then a plate of the same mee hoon which had started us on our journey appeared. Beer came with it and this at 9 in the morning. I enjoyed both. Later I reflected—was this the first step on the slippery slope to alcoholism? Then I thought, after all, I have been moving around since early morning and my time clock is ticking somewhere around early afternoon. (There is little sleep in a longhouse—dogs, cocks crowing, infants crying, mosquitos buzzing). No, I did not become alcoholic.
The journey by sea was so perilous that it came to me as great surprise that there was an alternative route-by land. Ihad no idea where I was, with no maps available, so I accepted everything on faith. It seems that a Landrover went occasionally from Sibuti to Miri and passed just a few miles away from where we were and it was due that very morning. We set out with a few others through the jungle along a shady path. I could only guess at the heat out in the open; for us it was a pleasant stroll. We got to the clearing where we were to meet the Landrover and waited. It duly arrived. All my expectations were dashed. It was packed from the driver’s cabin, on to his roof, people hanging on from every part, trussed chickens squawking. What will we do now? This is Borneo. The driver waved us aboard as if to say, you can take any seat you wish. The Ibans are so slightly built that it was decidedly ill-mannered of us to force ourselves into their midst. If they felt annoyance, they never showed it. Uncomfortable as I was, I preferred it to walking. But it was still a ride through the jungle not on a motor-way. When the going became tough with overhanging branches, thick vegetation and little streams, the driver asked us to get off and walk until he caught up with us again. And this was the pattern of the whole journey, part walk, part ride on a overcrowded vehicle.
It was during one of these walks that I saw my first python. They assured me it was dead and began poking it. It was well over eight feet in length, of a light grey colour with dark markings; half way down its length there was this unsightly bulge. They said it was a chicken. Many years later I had a personal visit from one. For such a long animal it can travel fast and hide itself in the most unlikely places. The journey had become like one of those classical Russian films; the people trudging from the top of the screen to the bottom and then all over again. It was only gradually that I became aware of a new sound, like the distant roar of the sea. It seemed so out of place in the jungle. Then all of a sudden we burst out of the bushes and there we were speeding along the seashore. In the monsoon season, the night or early morning rain dries in the heat of the sun and the sand provides good holding for cars. But the sight of upturned cars made me realise also the dangers of skidding on wet patches. Fatal accidents were not uncommon. It was great to feel the sea breeze and to see the waves after the confinement and drabness of the jungle. This last part of the trip took us right into Miri town, only a short walk to the mission. The fathers knowing all the discomfort I must have met gave me a warm welcome and congratulated me on completing my first missionary journey. For me it was a one-off experience. In the years ahead I would make many such trips in my pastoral work. I would have them carefully planned; the travel would not be as dangerous; there would be no lack of something to eat, albeit simple fare. But this remains a unique trip; the sail, the poverty, the spontaneity, poor Richard and Rose are all indelibly printed in my memory. Today the Trans-Borneo Highway (the road is not up to its grand title) passes a few minutes away from Rumah Pidek. Thanks be to God its poverty has been abolished with the progress of the country.
Just when you thought colonial life in Sarawak couldn’t get any more interesting, brace yourself for the next episode—where political storms brew, eccentric expats mingle, and the only thing more unpredictable than the weather is the cast of characters you’ll meet! Will our missionary finally master the art of “roughing it,” or will the local wildlife and the ever-resourceful residents keep him on his toes? Tune in for a tale where jungle paths, rope bridges, and a dash of British wit promise that even the quietest corners of Borneo are never short of surprises.
