MAIN EVENT. A Good Place to Get Started --- a.k.a "Table of Contents"
|
|
MAIN EVENT. A Good Place to Get Started --- a.k.a "Table of Contents" |
| DON'T READ ME FIRST! | THE PREVIOUS EVENT | THE NEXT EVENT | THE WRITERS/GUIDELINES | |
To read this article in Deutsch, Francaise, Italiano, Portuguese, Espanol, copy and paste the complete URL("http://www.g21.net/best1.html") and enter it in the box after you click through.
May 23, 1991
This major gaffe was brought to you by the Total Immersion Method of language instruction. It was precipitated by my desire to communicate directly with the Iban who work with Hamish rather than through others who might fuck up my intended meaning to the point of a display of ancient weaponry or through the use of emotionally-charged gesticulation, a definite cultural non-starter in these parts. The latter has doubtlessly contributed to my development of a weird variant of carpal tunnel syndrome known as "LIFLADS" - Linguistic Incompetent's Flapping Limb And Digit Syndrome.
It all began when we were "adopted" by an entire Iban longhouse community - the same longhouse which shelters Hamish's team members. Rumah Aji, as it is called, accommodates more than 700 people. So when I say longhouse, I do mean a long, by-god house. Picture a linearly-appointed condo community done in Early Asian Shack on stilts with a common verandah and you've got the picture. Except for the locks - there are none. Thus, you might be engaged in full-blown nookie and the neighbor could (and, by all accounts, does) waltz right in asking for a cup of rice. "Yeah, Mina, top shelf, third basket from the left. Don't mind us."
Each family's unit is called a "pintu", literally a "door". All the units empty out onto a giant, open verandah known as a "ruai". This is a particularly useful architectural design when you're dead-ass drunk on arak, the hooch of choice for most young Iban men. No dealing with stairs, just lurch your way down the ruai until the door that most closely resembles yours comes into view and fall through it onto the nearest available floor.
The connection to Rumah Aji was made through a fellow named Jugok who works with Hamish. Jugok is 47, illiterate and has more businesses on the side than Armand Hammer. For example, if there is a government agricultural subsidy to be had, Jugok will mount a nominal planting of the indicated crop just to qualify for his cut. And it's brilliant to watch the oh-so-superior government hacks just gape at him blankly as they hand him the dosh. The result is that he and his wife Umpit own arguably the most swank pad in Rumah Aji - upholstered furniture, television, stereo (both operated off a car battery since there is no electricity) and framed photos of the relatives on the walls instead of cheesy Carlsberg posters.
I really impressed Jugok with my rapidly advancing language skills during our first visit to the longhouse:
Discover the MOIA Discussion List
Mr. Baki insisted that we try a bottle of his tuak, a sort of palm-based home brew that can be merely palatable when it is very good and excruciatingly vile when it is anything approaching bad. Mr. Baki's tuak could have been marketed as a new brand of paint thinner. So as not to insult Jugok or Baki or anyone else looking on, Hamish and I had to drink the entire bottle. As a present (or maybe because he possesses a more warped sense of humor than we are yet aware of), Mr. Baki gave us three more bottles to take home. I nearly ralphed at the sight of it.
Jugok moved us along the ruai to his parents' place. As we walked through the doorway, the world's oldest living hippie stood before us. This was Enong, Jugok's father. As near as anyone can tell, Enong is 150 years old. Reed thin and tall with elegantly tattooed shoulders, a snaggle tooth and hair down to the middle of his back, Enong looks as though he spent most of the 60s hanging out with Timothy Leary. Rumor has it that Enong took the heads of Japanese during World War II when Sarawak was occupied and the Japanese were killing ethnic Chinese Sarawakians and many Dayak tribespeople, including the Iban. This is hard to believe since he seems fairly fogged in most of the time.
A few minutes later, a tiny woman with a coil of beautiful gray hair, smooth skin and no teeth appeared. This, Jugok explained, was his mother, Kunci. She is one of the most exquisite women I have ever seen. Kunci wore nothing from the waist up and sported tattoos in the form of bracelets on each of her arms. I discovered that these mark her as one of the high born of the Iban. Even without them, her bearing as a luminary among her people is unmistakable. This woman is all presence - I find myself inevitably drawn to her.
The introductions continued. The next stop was the home of another of Hamish's team members, a young man of 18 named Gawang. Gawang is what I would characterize as the strong, silent type. He heads a rather large extended family which includes his mother (with a blood-red mouth as evidence of a wicked betel nut habit), more sisters than are possible with the present state of human genetics and several nieces and nephews. Gawang's father died a few years ago, leaving him to support the family. At that point, Gawang - a top student in his class at school, according to Jugok - was forced to drop out. This job with Hamish's project represents the best chance that he has ever had to actually raise the family's standard of living and his own future prospects. And I thought I had problems......
Thus, our first visit to Rumah Aji came to a close. I thought it best to depart with a heartfelt personal greeting using my newly-acquired Malay skills:
Love,
Dear Simon,
Last week, I asked a woman if she was going to be eaten by her pig soon.
Jugok: Welcome to my home, Moira.
Me: Thank you, Mr. Jugok. My, isn't that a lovely dysentery you have over there.
Jugok (scratching his head, looking befuddled): Please, I invite you and Hamish to spend the night.
Me: Thank you, Mr. Jugok, but I never eat shrimp.
Jugok introduced us to most of the rest of his family that day, including a younger brother named Mr. Baki, who has a withered arm and a mouth that more than makes up for this physical impediment. Mr. Baki demonstrated his fine command of the English language by repeating for us in a rapid-fire litany the phrases with which he is most familiar - cocksucker, motherfucker, shit. I thought George Carlin had gone native.
The World's Magazine: g21.net
Event #187: The Late Edition
This Pull-down Menu will hyperjump you to all our great features. Try it!
JOIN THE G21 MAILING LIST. Get updates on new features. Take part in our Readership polls, shape the future of The World's Magazine. It's easy! E-mail The World's Magazine with the "Subject" line: SUBSCRIBE.
LAST WEEK's EDITION
For Deep Background visit the G21-Barnes & Noble Shop
Holiday Ideas Needed? Try the new G21/E-NEWS GIFT CENTER
OR get great books at the G21 BARNES & NOBLE SEARCH ENGINE
*Table Background courtesy of Jeffrey Zeldman Presents.
We continued up and down the ruai, pausing to meet various solid citizens of Rumah Aji every few doors and drinking the obligatory glasses of tuak at nearly every stop. It seemed that with each new introduction, we assembled an even larger entourage as people merely followed us to the next location, slugging back the tuak and contemplating the palm brew's potential as a household disinfectant. By our last stop, Hamish and I were weaving noticeably through an invisible slalom course along the ruai and I could feel the siren call of nature close at hand. Kunci guided me to what passes for a toilet in these parts - a hut, separate from the longhouse structure, at the end of a long, rickety gangplank out back. I went into a full squat over a gaping hole reeking of urea and feces and promptly did a face plant into the floorboards. Clearly, it was time to go.
Kunci: I hope that you will come back and spend the days with us while Hamish, Jugok and the rest of the team are in the field.
Me: Why that would be wonderful! Perhaps I could begin to learn why you all smell so badly!
Moira
© 1999, GENERATOR 21.
E-mail your comments. We always like to hear from you. Send your snide remarks to rod@g21.net.