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A Dusun Wedding
When in Sabah, don't decline an
invitation to a wedding!
by Herman (December 2005) -
click here for photos (from our Photo Galleries) see also:
Through the
Crocker Range
That’s how it happens: early in
the morning on Thursday you go to the Tamu in Donggongon and you meet someone
you somehow know but you don’t really recall from where. Anyway, that
acquaintance of yours is very much eager to invite you to a wedding, and would
not let you go before you have promised and sworn that you will join. There are
certainly worse things than getting invited to a wedding, and for me the fact
that the party is in an inaccessible area where you have to walk is only so much
more reason to go! Thus, as per promise, I met my acquaintance again in the
middle of the next week. We were to leave Thursday, the wedding being on Friday.
It stuck me a bit as odd, but then it was wedding season and if everybody would
get married on a Saturday how would you be able to visit them all and join their
respective festivities? That reasoning makes sense! Here, Jack – that is the
name of my acquaintance, and really a good friend – explained to me why we would
go to such a faraway wedding when he himself is from the north of Sabah: the
young man getting married is the brother of his wife, and Jack was to be his
best man. Knowing that I was invited by the best man to this wedding was
reassuring. I felt certainly less guilty and more ‘belonging’ than when I am
dragged to a wedding because a friend of a friend has a cousin who’s sister in
law’s auntie’s eldest son… I never really seem to get used to the fact that
here, however pleasurable it is, you can go to just about anybody’s wedding and
be heartily welcome! It says so much about the people here!
We met again as agreed on the Tamu ground in Donggongon, and after some to and
fro we were finally on the road. Much to my excitement it was in one of those
sturdy old Land Rovers one only sees once a week congregating en masse in
Donggongon: during the tamu. These sturdy old cars have taken the people from
the far interior to the tamu in Donggongon and other parts of Sabah over the
past forty years. They rarely run with the original engine any more, are heavily
modified, and look dramatically rugged and adventurous, usually with some parts
here and there held together with string and wire. But they run, and they still
offer the most amazing power and safety in the most demanding off-road
situations. We were to need this power to-day many times, but at the moment we
were headed for Gunung Emas and the Alab Pass there on the well maintained
tarmac road that links Kota Kinabalu with Tambunan and Keningau in the interior.
I was curious as to which junction we would take. I had a faint idea as to where
we were heading, but I had never been in that area and was not sure about the
turn-point. When we reached the junction – still below the pass – I knew well
where we were but I had never taken that road before – great, I thought, for me
totally unexplored terrain, and with each kilometer my expectations and
excitement grew. The road became, as expected, very quickly demanding, and later
extremely challenging, but our driver mastered even foot-deep and mud filled
ruts without even once getting stuck. There were a couple of dramatic moments
when to the left or the right of the road the slope would drop away into some
distant valley, and I had to think against myself that for this part of the
adventure alone some people would have paid good money…
We finally reached our destination after a nearly three hours’ drive, whereby
the last two hours were challenging off-roading and made more interesting in the
incessantly pouring rain. It was not really raining any more when we alighted
from the car and stretched our tattered limbs – the seats in those cars tend to
be on the hard side – but it was still drizzling and it was cold. My guess is
that we stopped at around 1500m above sea level, about one kilometre before SK
Sungoi in the Tuaran District. We stopped at a little shelter along the road,
and of course it was not our destination because from here we would have to
walk. We started unloading the car and I felt aghast. If the wedding is really
one hour’s walk from here, then it is going to be a hell of a drag schlepping
all those boxes into the valley: several dozen kilogram’s of frozen chicken and
half a dozen cartons with frozen beef , each of about 20 kg; a big suitcase
which obviously contained the gown and the dress of the bride and groom (and
later I learned also the dress of the best man…); the wedding cake, several
boxes with vegetables and other victuals and much more I could not imagine would
be necessary for a wedding in the jungle. But then, this was going to be a
‘modern’ wedding, only I did not know…
The rain started again heavier just as the car was unloaded, and we tried to
store all cardboard boxes, children and ourselves under the small bus stop when
a group of young men with ‘wakid’ carrier baskets emerged. They were
followed by a couple of women, also carrying sturdy wakid and after a couple of
greetings they started loading their baskets. A wakid is an incongruous looking
thing, but it is actually ingenious in design and practicality. It must have
been in use for as long as there have been Dusun in Sabah, because all of them
use the wakid and variations in design are small. It stands normally about two
feet tall and it is made from split bamboo. The largest I have seen have a
diameter of nearly two feet at the bottom and three at the top. A wakid can be
loaded with just about anything, and if it does not fit inside you tie it to the
top – as I was to witness. Incredible loads can be heaved with a wakid, and the
Dusun, especially the women, never fail to awe me with their strength and
endurance. Climb Mt Kinabalu, and you will see them using their wakid, too! No
other, modern design or material has ever been able to replace the traditional
wakid, though there are some modifications now and it is rare to find a truly
traditional wakid: the straps, in olden days made of rattan and called ‘togivis’
are now more often made from cloth – which is just a bit nicer on one’s
shoulders; and the bottom ring that holds the wakid base in place, once made
from bark, is now more often made from PVC piping making the rest of the wakid
last even longer! Ever the practical Dusuns, never short of ideas!
I watched in respect as the wakid were loaded now, and suddenly the whole load
that was in the car was gone, or nearly so. The bride to be wanted to carry the
wedding cake herself, and the groom took charge of the wedding dresses in their
valise. But the rest was carried by the group of porters – for such they were,
specially arranged for the wedding I was told, and they actually arrived right
in time! It never fails to amaze me what you can carry in a wakid – first they
were loaded with bags and other smaller items and boxes that would fit inside;
then came the oversized boxes with frozen meet, wrapped in black plastic bags
now because of the rain. They were tethered to top of the carrier baskets. Each
person, I estimated, had not less than thirty kilogram’s on their back, and most
of the weight above their head for that matter, an unthinkably bad way of
distributing weight. But that did not seem to bother the porters any further as
they set off down into the valley heading for the groom’s house.
While the porters and some of our party went off I was waiting with Jack for the
rest of the group, which came in a second Land Rover. They finally arrived just
as the rain seemed to lessen and we were soon off as we wanted to try and get to
the house before nightfall. There were several children in our group now, most
of them between six and eight years old and expectedly not as fast as us adults.
We had nearly nothing to carry along, except our personal belongings and I was
wondering again, on the slippery path through the jungle, how the porters with
their ungainly load managed. But our going to-day was easy, compared to what was
to expect us on the return after a hundred or so people had come through the
same way and after three days nearly non-stop raining! We managed quite nicely
and I was amazed at the children and how happy they strode ahead, fearless and
without hesitation. Dusun children, and even though brought up near Kota
Kinabalu and the first time ‘out in the jungle’ they did not complain once!
The going was not really tough, mostly downhill and the only river we had to
cross was bridged. We finally arrived just as dark set in. The last stretch was
uphill though, and rather slippery (and dangerous, only that nobody mentioned it
to the children…). We had to hold onto whatever came along, sometimes crawling
on all fours and we did look a bit dishevelled when we arrived. Fortunately
there was plenty of water and one by one we had a refreshing shower in a
candlelit bathroom.
The home of the groom was abuzz with frenetic activities for the upcoming
wedding the next day. I had a look at the house and realised that it was not at
all what I had expected – very normally, when in a village that can only be
reached by foot, you find more ‘indigenous’ structures than what was presented
here: a very neatly constructed wooden bungalow, freshly painted. The person who
made this home was very evidently an excellent carpenter with a penchant for
meticulous work – a rarity here, where even modern constructions are built to
such poor workmanship that houses often become uninhabitable, or at least
temporarily so, after half a year of use… Besides being impressed by the
neatness of the workmanship, apparent everywhere, I was awed by the fact that
the whole house was painted with a good quality paint, which comes in heavy cans
that had to be carried down into this valley… The wood was cut in situ, the
local people make their own planks and beams and all using chainsaws, but
anything else, from roofing over nails and doorknobs to glass window panes has
to be carried! There were also plenty of garden chairs under the awnings put up
for the wedding, and I was wondering who carried those ungainly things… In
short, I was truly impressed with this village that also sported one last very
traditional house – the groom’s father’s house, in fact.
We had some light dinner and later I was allowed to ‘help’ – which consisted of
the usual watching of people cutting and slicing and mixing and cooking the
wedding feast. People here call ‘my job’ freely translated as ‘moral support’; I
never feel totally comfortable with it though. If I can’t help I rather feel
like a lousy opportunist, because in the end all I do is chatting and waiting
for the next glass of rice wine… Well, in this case I was allowed to pour the
drinks, which gave me some sort of important feeling, at least not that utterly
useless feel I otherwise would have had. And in the course of the rather long
evening I met some truly interesting and cultured people, well versed in local
customs and traditions. Naturally, I wanted to take down some of what we
discussed but over the next three days it is needless to say that I never got
around it. Weddings are not good times for culture and language research, even
though I tend to speak the local lingo rather well after a couple of glasses of
rice wine.
After our jungle trekking (and a couple of glasses of rice wine) we all slept
rather well – at least those who did sleep, because the chefs and the others in
charge of the wedding preparations did not sleep at all! Thus far out in the
jungle there is not much that distracts one’s sleep: no cars, no other
background noise than the eternal ‘jungle concert’. The air is accordingly clean
and invigorating, and the water – from some well in the hills – tastes sweet!
And for those not engaged in any of the preparatory activities there was no
hurry the next day. We were sitting around, trying not to be in the way (rather
than trying to give a hand…), and chatting with the steady stream of visitors.
Amongst them were yesterday’s porters. After delivery they went back home – just
a couple of hours trekking through the jungle, no big deal, isn’t it! Then there
came a couple of acquaintances of mine and our astonishment at seeing each other
out here was reciprocal. Others were friends of the bride or the groom and I
learned from some that they had travelled from Kiulu. That’s more than three
hours trekking through the jungle, just to attend the wedding! Amongst them was
the band – I mentioned it was to be a modern wedding, and a band is a must: a
keyboard, plus player, huge speakers, karaoke, you name it! And because there
was no electricity in the village some band member – or its porters, I wondered
what kind of amazing band this was – had carried a generator from Kiulu all the
way to this village. Not a big generator, one of those small ones, barely 30
kilogram’s, and fitting rather smugly into a wakid, leaving its top free for
some more load!
The wedding cake was set up, and the whole was rather neatly decorated. Two
lunch buffets were prepared and then we waited for the bride and groom to make
their entrance, which they finally did to the thundering of gongs and
announcements over loudspeakers. After some prayers and more speeches the buffet
was finally open and it turned out to be extremely delectable food, and plenty
so. Then came the drinks: fresh rice wine called ‘segantang’ and a
wedding is not an occasion where one should hold back. As the afternoon sun
turned golden and drew long shadows the party was in a very animated state, and
some of the younger people could be found dozing in various places and positions
but nobody takes notice or offence during such times. The centre of attention
were naturally the bride and groom, and both had to drink a toast ever so often
and dance the Sumazau again with some relatives… it is a tough job being a
bride, or a groom. After all, you also wish not to make a fool of yourself
during your own wedding and at some time they disappeared – I think not many
realised… food was still plenty and segantang seemed to be available in
limitless quantities. The greatest worry of anybody getting married here is to
run out of food or drinks, but that was certainly not the case here.
I went to bed rather early, after what I deemed enough rice wine as not to
incapacitate myself for the trekking of the next day. When I made my appearance
the next morning I had to realise that my early disappearance the night before
had not gone unnoticed, especially by those who had been at it the whole night,
and thus my breakfast consisted of a couple of glasses of rice wine to ‘punish’
me for my early sleep… I managed to get some real breakfast in due course, after
which I settled into the comfortable drinking and chatting sessions until Jack
called me to get ready for our journey back. I was just about warming up and
could have gone on for a couple of days, which many most surely would do, but
transport from these remote areas is not really easy to get and so I reluctantly
shook many hands, took many more ‘farewell sips’ – which were rather full
glasses – and accepted some food for the way before we finally tore ourselves
loose and left.
The return journey was something of a slippery affair. It had been raining for
nearly three days and a hundred or so people had come through the same path, so
it was rather muddy and very slippery. Again, the children did marvellously well
and never complained once. I was wondering though how the band managed, which
took part of the same trail we did, and it seemed the steepest and slipperiest
part. The porters of the band had their wakid loaded with heavy, impossibly
balanced and rather expensive equipment. I was happy I only had my light
‘daypack’!
When we arrived at the shelter on the road our car was waiting for us and an
exciting but otherwise uneventful took us back to Donggongon – and to the next
wedding. But that is another story…
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