Hearts and Heads in Borneo
Would you like to attend a tribal wedding? Reynold asks.
I stare at him. "Where?"
"It's being held at the Monsopiad Cultural Village. That's a little settlement about twenty minutes drive out of Kota Kinabalu. The family used to be Kadazan head-hunters and the ceremony is being conducted on their sacred ancestral grounds." Reynold pauses. "Of course, I should explain that this isn't a real wedding. It's only a re-enactment. But there'll be feasting and dancing, you'll get to meet an actual bobozihan (priestess) and see some very interesting relics from the old head-hunting days."
We are sipping fruit punch on the immaculate lawns of the Shangri-la Tanjung Aru Resort in Kota Kinabalu, surrounded by bougainvillaea creepers and flowering bushes. Waiters in colourful Malay tunics, aprons and turbans weave between tables as the setting sun flames the waters of the South China Sea. It is a sophisticated world of opulence and leisure. The scene dissolves and is replaced in my imagination by a vision of jungles, of bare-chested warriors in feathered headgear, a tall young priestess with mysterious eyes, and the sound of drums and chanting…
"Count me in!" I say.
Reynold drains his glass and stands up. He looks like a shaven-headed pugilist, his thick muscular torso a physical inheritance from his Kadazan warrior ancestry. "I'll pick you up a little after ten tomorrow morning. The ceremony starts at eleven."
Kota Kinabalu is the capital of the state of Sabah, and its chief claim to fame is that it lies in the shadow of the brooding crags of Mount Kinabalu – a sacred mountain of strange moods and eerie beauty – and because it is a short boat ride away from the island of Pilau Tiga where the TV series "Survivor" was filmed a few years ago. As we drive out of town, the sprawl of concrete apartment blocks, shopping arcades and advertising billboards give way to bungalows with brilliant blue – tiled roofs, thatched wooden houses perched on stilts palm plantations, and cream-coffee coloured streams winding through dense tropical foliage.
The entrance pathway of the Monsopiad Cultural Village is bordered by a riot of shrubs, ferns and vines. A rustic reception platform – bamboo rafters, and woven rattan walls adorned with black and white photographs of family members in ceremonial robes and feathered head-dresses – all fits in with my expectations. However, this is a tourist attraction which is rapidly gaining in popularity and far, from being an unsophisticated little retreat hidden in jungles of rural Sabah, it is a well-organised enterprise. And, as I find out, there are advantages to that, although my original romantic vision is beginning to blur at the edges.
A young woman with a charming smile serves me a glass of rice wine. It is smoother than Saki – rather like a sweet sherry. Reynold who has been chatting to one of the hosts, beckons urgently. "Come, follow me, the wedding party are arriving."
We stand on a long veranda overlooking the Moyog river - its waters as thick and turgid as molasses. The sound of drums and liquid timpani drifts up to us, and a boat decorated with colourful streamers emerges around the bend. The wedding party dismount on the opposite shore, accompanied by a retinue of warriors who leap about, wave their blow pipes in the air and let out a series of blood-curdling yells. Their caterwauling startles a flock of crows who take off, cawing vociferously in protest. Unfazed by the racket, the bride and groom along with their attendants walk in procession across a plank-and-rope suspension bridge spanning the river.
It is a steamy day, and sweat trickles down between my shoulder blades. I marvel at the bride - she is wearing a long black skirt held in place by a belt of gold coins, and a glittering orange shawl criss-crossed over a black blouse, but there isn't a single bead of perspiration on her brow! The groom looks equally comfortable in a black long-sleeved suit embellished with thick gold braids. Cameras click like Gieger counters all around them, as they smile and pose for their guests. As they enter the compound of the Cultural Centre, an ancient, bent woman dressed in black robes awaits them. Her eyes are wise and tranquil. "She's the bobohizan – the priestess," Reynold whispers to me, "and her husband is a direct descendant of Monsopiad."
Who is Monsopiad? I want to ask, but there is no time. The priestess waves a sheaf of dripping leaves over the heads of the couple and murmurs a blessing. Then we trail the wedding entourage to a bungalow at the far end of the lawn. Like all village houses, the wooden building is perched on stilts, and a notched log (with no hand-rails) serves as a staircase to the veranda flanking the main floor. Traditionally, this is the groom's family home where the couple will live for three months, before moving to their own house.
At the entrance to the stairs, the priestess invites the couple to stand for a moment on a round stone, and then holds conical hats over their heads. Both are symbolic gestures: the stone signifies solidity in their marriage relationship; the hats are protection against the forces of evil. The old bobohizan then does some more liberal sprinkling all round, after which we all climb into the house.
The couple seat themselves on the ground on a bamboo mat, while their warrior escorts jubilantly exercise their vocal cords once more. Drums and gongs go into fortissimo mode as plates of chicken drumsticks and rice are placed in front of the bride and groom. This part of the ceremony involves feeding one another (a gesture symbolising mutual caring and tenderness) but it is a bit tricky since the rice has to lobbed into each other's mouth simultaneously without dropping so much as a grain! There is much laughter and I suspect a few ribald comments from their tribal companions, which elicits a small giggle from the priestess, who has hitherto been poker-faced.
Then its chow time. The nuptial banquet consists of an array of Kadazan specialties. The guests help themselves to packages of rice steamed in palm leaves, sliced beef embellished with bok choy and thin rice noodles garnished with shrimp, finely sliced spring onions and chillies. I select small tender fish pieces marinated in a delectably spicy sauce and dip into a big pot of "drunken chicken" – so called because it is stewed in rice wine! Our host comes over to ask whether I'm enjoying the meal, and to chat a little about Kadazan wedding customs.
To my surprise, unlike India, where the bride's parents shell out a considerable dowry in both cash and kind, the reverse applies here; it is the responsibility of the groom's folks to come up with a bride price. This used to consist of fifteen buffaloes, ten brass canons, three large Chinese jars and one brass gong! Today, however, parents have little or no say in the choice of their children's marriage partners, and the groom himself finances a suitable nopung (dowry), likely as not to consist of a new TV or refrigerator for the bride's parents. "Even so," says my host, "he will still have to pay for a couple of buffaloes, because the meat is an essential part of our traditional wedding feast!" He disposes of my empty plate, and we stroll back into the main room to rejoin the bridal party.
The rice wine – deceptively innocuous – is flowing freely now and guests, draped with feathers, palm-leaf sheaves and Kadazan scarves, are being urged to join in a traditional tribal dance. Wearing tipsy and slightly sheepish grins, they sway, dip and flap their arms to the rhythm of the drums and gongs! It is a good party but I still have an unanswered question niggling at me. Our host is busy pouring drinks, but Reynold, catching my eye, ambles over. "Who is Monsopiad?" I ask him.
"Ah-ha!" Reynold says. "I know just the person to tell you all about him!" He goes over to confer with one of the bride's attendants. She and I leave the main compound of the Monsopiad Cultural Village, cross the road, and walk up to the broad veranda of a large bungalow. My young guide pauses in front of a locked wooden door "We must ask the spirits of the house for their permission and also apologise for the intrusion before we enter the room." She explains. I am mystified, but repeat the obligatory incantation.
The afternoon sun streams through the windows, throwing flickering shadows across the room. Above our heads, a pole stretching from one wall to the other is festooned with dried palm-leaf fronds and objects, which look like large discoloured ostrich eggs. But appearances are deceptive. The "eggs" are in fact, thirty-eight human skulls – all of them over three hundred years old – which have been strung up so that the frontal bones are upturned to the thatched ceiling, and the dome-like pates exposed to view. "We call this the House of Skulls," my guide says. "And these are Monsopiad's trophies." I throw an uneasy glance at the skulls as a light breeze quivers the palm sheaves like a disembodied breath. She catches my eye and adds: "Although the spirits of the skulls dwell in this room, they are not evil. We believe that the souls of the vanquished bring us health and good fortune. They are also protectors of our village - and our guests. So…" she wags her head at me, "there is no need to worry."
Three centuries ago, however, the enemies of this kampung (village) must have certainly been worried. Monsopiad, it turns out, was a legendary head-hunter and warrior chief. Hailed as the divinely appointed protector of his tribe, he had captured and decapitated 42 brigands, thieves, chiefs from rival villages and an assortment of other odds and sods who happened to get under his skin. Ironically, "getting under his skin" proved to be more than a figure of speech as far as Monsopiad's own fate was concerned. The tale goes that an envious fellow warrior slit Monsopiad's wrists while he was in a drunken stupor. As soon as his blood began to flow, his superhuman powers drained away, leaving him as vulnerable as any other mortal to the ravages of death at the age of thirty-eight.
Fifteen minutes later, when we emerge from The House of Skulls, the sun has disappeared behind gun-metal clouds. The air is still and heavy with expectancy, and thunder snarls in the distance. Back at the main Cultural Village centre, my guide leads me to a massive stone obelisk standing in one corner of the compound. "This is a monolith brought here to the family property by Monsopiad." she says. "We consider it sacred because it is inhabited by the souls of the dead – in particular, the spirit of a martyr who was sacrificed to appease the gods of war. After the man was killed at this spot," she indicates the base of the monument, "everyone in the kampung came to rejoice, honor him and drink his blood – and then, after that there was no more fighting." She pauses to point upwards. "And see these bamboo poles? That's where the heads of defeated enemies were left to dry and shrivel in the sun." Her tone is as matter of fact as that of a newscaster talking about the weather.
I look at the staves surrounding the stone, and a queer little tingle runs down my spine as the scene flickers to life: the decapitated heads impaled on these poles, eyes blind, lips drawn back in the rictus of death, blood trickling down to coagulate into black pools at their base; the stench of human flesh, the sound of drums and flutes, the chanting of a bobohizan and groups of feathered warriors leaping and whooping in triumph...
The present comes back into abrupt focus by a brilliant flash of lightening and a thunderclap, which sounds as though it is six inches above my head. The rain comes down in a ferocious roaring onslaught, sheeting out the obelisk, and sending us sprinting for cover to the reception veranda.
Reynold re-appears from a side door. "It won't last long," he shouts above the keening wind. "Our storms – like our past – are violent, but fleeting!" He grins and waves a bottle and a shot glass. Here...have some more rice wine." I watch capillaries of lightening coil across the sky, but the thunder has already begun to recede. Five minutes later, the rain is gone, the wind has died to a soft breeze, the sun emerges, and the scent of steamy wet earth wafts across the verandah.
When You Go:
Getting There:
Malaysian Airlines links Kota Kinabalu, (the capital city of the Malaysian state of Sabah on the north west coast of Borneo) to Vancouver (via Los Angeles and Taipei), Hongkong, China, Japan, Kuala Lumpur and Singapore. The airline offers excellent in-flight entertainment facilities, a choice of Malaysian and western cuisine, as well as gracious, attentive service on board their international and domestic flights. For further information contact your travel agent, or visit their website at www.malaysiaairlines.com.my/
Where to Stay:
Kota Kinabalu boasts a variety of accommodation ranging from budget hotels to five star resorts. At the top of the line, is the Shangri-la Tanjung Aru Resort, set in 25 acres of landscaped tropical gardens fringing the shores of the South China Sea. The Tanjung Aru pampers its guests in luxuriously appointed rooms and suites, all of them with private balconies overlooking either the water, or facing the towering peaks of Mount Kinabalu. Five restaurants and a cocktail bar offer superb Malay, Chinese, Indian and Western cuisine and live evening entertainment. Their facilities include two swimming pools, four tennis courts, a nine-hole golf course, leisure centre and health club as well as a private beach. Business travellers have access to secretarial services and Internet access at the resort's Business Centre. Drop by their website for more information: www.shangri-la.com/eng/hotel/24/
The Monsopiad Cultural Village:
This is located approximately 15 km south of Kota Kinabalu. The property belongs to Monsopiad's family (their bungalow is alongside The House of Skulls) and Gundohing Dousia Moujing, the 6th direct descendent of the legendary warrior, is the current Director of the Cultural Village. The Kadazan wedding ceremony is only held on selected dates during the year; so be sure to contact them in advance for specific information. The centre is open daily from 9 am to 6 pm and other events (tribal dances and tours) are offered on their regular schedule. Entrance per person: RM 50.00 (approx: CA$20.00). For details see: www.monsopiad.org/index.asp
Ph: (60) 88-761-336
Fax:(60) 88-761-680
E-mail: mcv@monsopiad.org
Tours:
Wildlife Expeditions Borneo may be contacted in person at their office in the Shangri-la Tanjung Aru Resort. They run full and half-day tours in and around Kota Kinabalu and further afield across Borneo with courteous, well-informed and experienced guides such as Reynold Miji. For detailed information go to: www.wildlife-expeditions.com/
Tel : (60) 88-246 000
Fax : (60) 88-231 758
E-mail: esther.chu@wildlife-expeditions.com
It is a steamy day, and sweat trickles down between my shoulder blades. I marvel at the bride - she is wearing a long black skirt held in place by a belt of gold coins, and a glittering orange shawl criss-crossed over a black blouse, but there isn't a single bead of perspiration on her brow! The groom looks equally comfortable in a black long-sleeved suit embellished with thick gold braids. Cameras click like Gieger counters all around them, as they smile and pose for their guests. As they enter the compound of the Cultural Centre, an ancient, bent woman dressed in black robes awaits them. Her eyes are wise and tranquil. "She's the bobohizan – the priestess," Reynold whispers to me, "and her husband is a direct descendant of Monsopiad."
Who is Monsopiad? I want to ask, but there is no time. The priestess waves a sheaf of dripping leaves over the heads of the couple and murmurs a blessing. Then we trail the wedding entourage to a bungalow at the far end of the lawn. Like all village houses, the wooden building is perched on stilts, and a notched log (with no hand-rails) serves as a staircase to the veranda flanking the main floor. Traditionally, this is the groom's family home where the couple will live for three months, before moving to their own house.
At the entrance to the stairs, the priestess invites the couple to stand for a moment on a round stone, and then holds conical hats over their heads. Both are symbolic gestures: the stone signifies solidity in their marriage relationship; the hats are protection against the forces of evil. The old bobohizan then does some more liberal sprinkling all round, after which we all climb into the house.
The couple seat themselves on the ground on a bamboo mat, while their warrior escorts jubilantly exercise their vocal cords once more. Drums and gongs go into fortissimo mode as plates of chicken drumsticks and rice are placed in front of the bride and groom. This part of the ceremony involves feeding one another (a gesture symbolising mutual caring and tenderness) but it is a bit tricky since the rice has to lobbed into each other's mouth simultaneously without dropping so much as a grain! There is much laughter and I suspect a few ribald comments from their tribal companions, which elicits a small giggle from the priestess, who has hitherto been poker-faced.
Then its chow time. The nuptial banquet consists of an array of Kadazan specialties. The guests help themselves to packages of rice steamed in palm leaves, sliced beef embellished with bok choy and thin rice noodles garnished with shrimp, finely sliced spring onions and chillies. I select small tender fish pieces marinated in a delectably spicy sauce and dip into a big pot of "drunken chicken" – so called because it is stewed in rice wine! Our host comes over to ask whether I'm enjoying the meal, and to chat a little about Kadazan wedding customs.
To my surprise, unlike India, where the bride's parents shell out a considerable dowry in both cash and kind, the reverse applies here; it is the responsibility of the groom's folks to come up with a bride price. This used to consist of fifteen buffaloes, ten brass canons, three large Chinese jars and one brass gong! Today, however, parents have little or no say in the choice of their children's marriage partners, and the groom himself finances a suitable nopung (dowry), likely as not to consist of a new TV or refrigerator for the bride's parents. "Even so," says my host, "he will still have to pay for a couple of buffaloes, because the meat is an essential part of our traditional wedding feast!" He disposes of my empty plate, and we stroll back into the main room to rejoin the bridal party.
The rice wine – deceptively innocuous – is flowing freely now and guests, draped with feathers, palm-leaf sheaves and Kadazan scarves, are being urged to join in a traditional tribal dance. Wearing tipsy and slightly sheepish grins, they sway, dip and flap their arms to the rhythm of the drums and gongs! It is a good party but I still have an unanswered question niggling at me. Our host is busy pouring drinks, but Reynold, catching my eye, ambles over. "Who is Monsopiad?" I ask him.
"Ah-ha!" Reynold says. "I know just the person to tell you all about him!" He goes over to confer with one of the bride's attendants. She and I leave the main compound of the Monsopiad Cultural Village, cross the road, and walk up to the broad veranda of a large bungalow. My young guide pauses in front of a locked wooden door "We must ask the spirits of the house for their permission and also apologise for the intrusion before we enter the room." She explains. I am mystified, but repeat the obligatory incantation.
The afternoon sun streams through the windows, throwing flickering shadows across the room. Above our heads, a pole stretching from one wall to the other is festooned with dried palm-leaf fronds and objects, which look like large discoloured ostrich eggs. But appearances are deceptive. The "eggs" are in fact, thirty-eight human skulls – all of them over three hundred years old – which have been strung up so that the frontal bones are upturned to the thatched ceiling, and the dome-like pates exposed to view. "We call this the House of Skulls," my guide says. "And these are Monsopiad's trophies." I throw an uneasy glance at the skulls as a light breeze quivers the palm sheaves like a disembodied breath. She catches my eye and adds: "Although the spirits of the skulls dwell in this room, they are not evil. We believe that the souls of the vanquished bring us health and good fortune. They are also protectors of our village - and our guests. So…" she wags her head at me, "there is no need to worry."
Three centuries ago, however, the enemies of this kampung (village) must have certainly been worried. Monsopiad, it turns out, was a legendary head-hunter and warrior chief. Hailed as the divinely appointed protector of his tribe, he had captured and decapitated 42 brigands, thieves, chiefs from rival villages and an assortment of other odds and sods who happened to get under his skin. Ironically, "getting under his skin" proved to be more than a figure of speech as far as Monsopiad's own fate was concerned. The tale goes that an envious fellow warrior slit Monsopiad's wrists while he was in a drunken stupor. As soon as his blood began to flow, his superhuman powers drained away, leaving him as vulnerable as any other mortal to the ravages of death at the age of thirty-eight.
Fifteen minutes later, when we emerge from The House of Skulls, the sun has disappeared behind gun-metal clouds. The air is still and heavy with expectancy, and thunder snarls in the distance. Back at the main Cultural Village centre, my guide leads me to a massive stone obelisk standing in one corner of the compound. "This is a monolith brought here to the family property by Monsopiad." she says. "We consider it sacred because it is inhabited by the souls of the dead – in particular, the spirit of a martyr who was sacrificed to appease the gods of war. After the man was killed at this spot," she indicates the base of the monument, "everyone in the kampung came to rejoice, honor him and drink his blood – and then, after that there was no more fighting." She pauses to point upwards. "And see these bamboo poles? That's where the heads of defeated enemies were left to dry and shrivel in the sun." Her tone is as matter of fact as that of a newscaster talking about the weather.
I look at the staves surrounding the stone, and a queer little tingle runs down my spine as the scene flickers to life: the decapitated heads impaled on these poles, eyes blind, lips drawn back in the rictus of death, blood trickling down to coagulate into black pools at their base; the stench of human flesh, the sound of drums and flutes, the chanting of a bobohizan and groups of feathered warriors leaping and whooping in triumph...
The present comes back into abrupt focus by a brilliant flash of lightening and a thunderclap, which sounds as though it is six inches above my head. The rain comes down in a ferocious roaring onslaught, sheeting out the obelisk, and sending us sprinting for cover to the reception veranda.
Reynold re-appears from a side door. "It won't last long," he shouts above the keening wind. "Our storms – like our past – are violent, but fleeting!" He grins and waves a bottle and a shot glass. Here...have some more rice wine." I watch capillaries of lightening coil across the sky, but the thunder has already begun to recede. Five minutes later, the rain is gone, the wind has died to a soft breeze, the sun emerges, and the scent of steamy wet earth wafts across the verandah.
When You Go:
Getting There:
Malaysian Airlines links Kota Kinabalu, (the capital city of the Malaysian state of Sabah on the north west coast of Borneo) to Vancouver (via Los Angeles and Taipei), Hongkong, China, Japan, Kuala Lumpur and Singapore. The airline offers excellent in-flight entertainment facilities, a choice of Malaysian and western cuisine, as well as gracious, attentive service on board their international and domestic flights. For further information contact your travel agent, or visit their website at www.malaysiaairlines.com.my/
Where to Stay:
Kota Kinabalu boasts a variety of accommodation ranging from budget hotels to five star resorts. At the top of the line, is the Shangri-la Tanjung Aru Resort, set in 25 acres of landscaped tropical gardens fringing the shores of the South China Sea. The Tanjung Aru pampers its guests in luxuriously appointed rooms and suites, all of them with private balconies overlooking either the water, or facing the towering peaks of Mount Kinabalu. Five restaurants and a cocktail bar offer superb Malay, Chinese, Indian and Western cuisine and live evening entertainment. Their facilities include two swimming pools, four tennis courts, a nine-hole golf course, leisure centre and health club as well as a private beach. Business travellers have access to secretarial services and Internet access at the resort's Business Centre. Drop by their website for more information: www.shangri-la.com/eng/hotel/24/
The Monsopiad Cultural Village:
This is located approximately 15 km south of Kota Kinabalu. The
property belongs to Monsopiad's family (their bungalow is alongside The
House of Skulls) and Gundohing Dousia Moujing, the 6th direct descendent
of the legendary warrior, is the current Director of the Cultural Village.
The Kadazan wedding ceremony is only held on selected dates during the
year; so be sure to contact them in advance for specific information. The
centre is open daily from 9 am to 6 pm and other events (tribal dances and
tours) are offered on their regular schedule. Entrance per person: RM
50.00 (approx: CA$20.00). For details see: www.monsopiad.org/index.asp
Ph: (60) 88-761-336
Fax:(60) 88-761-680
E-mail: mcv@monsopiad.org
Tours:
Wildlife Expeditions Borneo may be contacted in person at their office
in the Shangri-la Tanjung Aru Resort. They run full and half-day tours in
and around Kota Kinabalu and further afield across Borneo with courteous,
well-informed and experienced guides such as Reynold Miji. For detailed
information go to: www.wildlife-expeditions.com/
Tel : (60) 88-246 000
Fax : (60) 88-231 758
E-mail: esther.chu@wildlife-expeditions.com