Kg Entanggor, Sebuyou

Simunjan, a name that even some Sarawakian may not know. What more if I mention the name of the village that sits approximately 100 km away from Kuching city - Kg Entanggor. It's sounded like Bintangor, a town located hundreds of kilometers north of Kuching, in the Rajang Basin. But Kg Entanggor is not like Bintangor. It may not even compare with Kg Sungai Gemuan, which is more populated, located in Bintangor itself. It is just a small Iban village, with a longhouse anchoring in the middle of it, surrounded by wooden houses. The number of houses seemed to swallow the presence of the longhouse. It was odd in the beginning, considering that the first image that appears in mind is a longhouse when an Iban settlement is mentioned. The longhouse was not long with only 4 to 5 pintus. The headman lives in the longhouse.

We were received with a warm welcome - a treat to hot tea and lemang. The lemang was commendable. It was made from fresh glutinous rice planted, with pride, by the villagers themselves. Soon, our entourage of 10 were like long lost extended families of Mr Albert, the head of the household of one of the pintus of the longhouse. His was at the end. Somewhat like a corner house.

Conversation soon exchanged. Our reasons, our background and other pleasantries began to unfold. On the walls, were some introduction to the family heirlooms. There should be. The longhouse was about 100 years old and it lived through three generations under the reign of the Brooke's family. Old skulls, three of them, were placed in a coarsely made rattan basket. The creases and depressions blackened through the years. Whose were those? Why were they there? What could the story be behind those skulls?

There were old photos as old as the person in it. The colours were over saturated - an effect created in the 70s when coloured photo was a rare item. The face of Jesus Christ adorn a major portion of the feature wall, a sign of the major religion that was held by the majority here. "Though most of us are Christians, we have relatives who have became Malay," a common misconception among many when a person embraces Islam. "We have nephews and nieces whose spouses are Chinese, Indian and even a Sabahan," said the lady, who is the sister of Mr Albert.

Banners and flyers decorating the ruai, were proudly attune to the 1Malaysia branding. Next to it was a flag showing a logo of a steelyard in blue background. The picture of our honorable prime minister was prominently placed at the entrance and on the walls with a spacing of about 10 meters between them. Again, this is odd. We came in the middle of a land ownership crisis. Their land of about 3000 hectares, with an NCR status, were given a provisional lease to a palm oil plantation company. Kg Entanggor sits in this land. It's inhabitants are in danger of becoming homeless.  The company's lawyer had issued a notice of eviction to the villagers. As visitors, we empathized them. We understood their predicament. Who wants to be homeless when we are not illegals in our own land? This is odd, when there are foreigners posing as students in private colleges who are comfortably living in apartments masterminding the black money scam. And yet, they are still free? The eviction would surely come as a big shocker for the elderly who had been staying there since young. What wrong had they done to deserve this punishment? Being homeless in the golden years?

We settled in an open space just above the ruai. That will be our sleeping place for the night. The girls will sleep at one end, behind an old bed that serves as a barrier. Dinner was served at around 7pm. The chicken was guaranteed halal as it was bought from a malay muslim trader. Stir fried vegetable, made simply were sufficient to fulfill the hungry stomachs. Some of us, still hesitant, refrain from taking the meat dish, but took the vegetables. Feeling full, but still in respect of the house members.

Hot tea was again served after dinner. We waited for the villagers to gather at the ruai to allow us to explain our reasons for coming. "Puji Tuhan," said the bishop cum assistant ketua kampung to me when I greeted him. In 15 minutes the ruai was filled with people, mostly sitting at the far end and lining the sides. Tonight, it was an important session for them. Besides us, they were going to sign a protest note to be given to the plantation company. In a speech earlier by the protest leader, he mentioned that each pintu had to donate a thousand ringgit to pay for the lawyer's service. Loans can be arranged.

The project leader was called up to introduce the team and himself. I was pestered to go up front to give a little advice on health. Although unplanned, I immediately commented on smoking, which was too obvious in the village. A few questions ensued, asking about breast cancer, the recent implementation of HPV vaccination and hypercholesterolaemia. It was tough. Since Iban was the main language, speaking in Malay was helping little to get them to understand. A few nods of approval seemed to give some hope.

The peak event of the night started with me being invited to sing a song. As I am a bass, something slow and deep should be suitable for me. A Bob Tutypoly song - widuri - was just nice. "Sandarkan pada Kenangan" was too fast and high pitch. "Tenda biru" was a good choice, but I could not figure out the melody.  So I settled with Widuri in the end. I do not know if I mesmerized the crowd with my rendition of widuri. The students were bewildered. Only their cheers could be heard in the beginning of the prose. Probably they never expect that a teacher can actually hold a mic and sing, besides giving a lecture. The crowd was still sane. Some men were still in small groups while puffing away. The womenfolk were just absorbing the whole thing, enjoying the sight of outsiders being themselves - or not. Children at this hour - 10pm - are still awake. Someone ought to tell them to go to bed. But events like that are rare. With all the audio and visual stimulation penetrating through the wooden walls of the long house, what sleep would they get.

That was the challenge that we had at two in the morning. The planks that I slept on still vibrated to the beats of "bekikis bulu betis", chinta sabun mandi and many more Iban hits. Andrewson Ngalai - an iban recording artist - must be really proud.

Then the students were persuaded to take over the mic after me. The rendition of "aku anak kampung" open the floors even wider. A love song such as widuri may be appealing for lovebirds, but not hard rocking party goers. It's a song that put them to sleep. The catchy beats of "aku anak kampung" quickly got the crowd cooing and clapping. A few ladies and men, who were all dressed up started to dance to the music of the live band. Their joget movements quickly reverberate through the crowds. A few rhythmic head shakes started to appear. Soon the floor of the ruai were filled with more people doing the a-go-go. The singing students did not expect this. They

thought it was just a karaoke session with a live band. Nothing more. The expanding revelry caught them unprepared and they were in awe of the whole experience.

We had to retire early for the night. Our actual mission was the event in the morning. I sought permission from the councilor who was the master of ceremony and he gave his consent. But it was not easy to fall asleep. Most of us tossed and turned, trying hard to outdo the music. The sound from the crowd seemed to get wilder. Soon, the the weariness of the eyes caved in to allow a bit of rest despite the thumping beats of the band that was just below us.

At five AM, thanks to Amin, I woke up the sound of his snore. Besides that, the surrounding was still calm and quiet. What ever happened to the music, which was too loud a few hours ago? I got up and felt my way to the toilet, which was located outside at the hind ruai. In the dark I could see a few bodies logging around the sitting room, all huddled in coldness.

At the ruai, the atap roofs were gone. It was all pitch black. With the sprinkle of very bright stars spread across the pitch black sky, it was a wonder. The absence of city lights and other light sources enhance the natural beauty as it looked like diamonds plastered to the black sky.

Soon, the cocks made their call. Breakfast was again simple, a remembrance from those simpler years of childhood in Kuching. Fried rice with crispy anchovies and hot coffee were served. The morning was an opposite of the night event. The rattan mats were still unfold at the ruai. Dogs were seen roaming freely, curious of the things that happened the night before. It was quiet.

We gathered our tools and made our way to the community hall. The hall looked like any of the houses, on wooden belian stilts. Except that it has a stage with handwritten wordings of the Gawai closing ceremony on the tattered backdrop written two years back. I just hope that the party and merry making last night did not take a toll on the commitment of the villagers. By 8 AM, the sun was already up. The sun shone through the windows, landing on the rubber mat on the floor. It was getting to get warm. Soon, an old couple appeared at the door, knowing their purpose that met our intention. We were relieved.

By 10, more people had came - most just returned from their morning mass at the nearby chapel. It was quite risky to take blood samples at that time. I would predict that most of them were  going to be hypoglycaemic. In research, this could be a risk to the methodology. Some how or another, we hope to seek consistency in the timing of blood collection in all future works.

The day was slightly hectic. Most members of the team had little experience in collecting data from the community. Approaching noon, we packed our tools and head back to the headman's house. Its time to bid farewell. We thanked them for their hospitality and wished good luck in their quest to remain in their rightful land.