Smoking Skulls, Animal Sacrifices, and Stella Ella Ola: Life in the Long House (Indonesian Borneo)

No, seriously.

When we arrived in Borneo nearly a week ago, we saw one other westerner deplane with us--and haven't seen another since. Needless to say, with the number of photos we've posed for with smiling babies in hand, I'm thinking we're well set for seasonal hire as Christmas Santas at the mall...

The first thing we noticed about Borneo was that it was far more developed that we'd expected. I'm not sure what I was thinking we'd find--tribesmen in loin cloths eyeing our scalps with spears in hand whilst orang-utans scatter like pigeons in Chinatown (come on, what do YOU think of when you think of Borneo?)--but it certainly wasn't the modern, oil-wealthy city that we landed in. And so we immediately went looking for adventure...

We began by taking a bus on a winding dirt road through jungle thick as an Italian's chesthair to a smaller town. At this point, I'd like to say that Borneans (Borneoions? Bornites? Those who are Born?) are quite possibly some of the nicest people on earth--regardless of the fact that most of them have English skills rivaling our Indonesian skills (we asked at a small roadside restaurant if anyone spoke English, and they were nearly in tears from laughing so hard). When we first arrived, a gaggle of hijab-clad women, giggling and whispering behind shy palms, spent the entire mini-bus ride with us trying to help us figure out where we were going. Amidst broken English, broken Indonesian, possibly some Spanish (I swear I heard an "Aye carumba!" in there), and a LOT of hand gesturing, they managed to pass on a lot of great advice on the area as we drove towards our hotel. Once we checked in, there was yet another gaggle (this time of men--a maggle, perhaps?)who spent over an hour sitting with us, listening intently to our vision of our travel, and helping us plan the best possible route. One very generous man even drove us to the dock to check boat times for the following day--and as if that weren't enough, the next morning he was waiting for us just as we left our hotel to escort us personally to the boat, but not before he'd treated us to breakfast first. We were truly amazed; especially since we didn't experience such hospitality in the rest of the country. Perhaps because Borneo does get so few tourists (and significantly fewer after previous internal struggles have left travellers wary of the area), the locals aren't accustomed or jaded to us, and are eager to show off their home.

Anyway, we then boarded a long boat and set sail fifteen hours up river to where people lead more traditional lives. A long boat is, quite literally, a very long boat. Only about fifteen feet wide but at least fifty feet long, it's made of wood with small bunks up top and festival seating down below, and buckles dramatically in the middle in a way that is both unnerving and exhilerating.

On the way, we passed houses lining the shore made of crude planks of wood perched above the water on stilts. Small docks jutted forward (beneath which, we later learned, were little fish farms) upon which people washed clothing or themselves, and sold vegetables, and chatted with each other. An outhouse stood at the end of each dock, awkward yet sort of funny in its incovertness.

Needless to say, our caucasian celebrity-like status followed us onto said long boat, where nearly a hundred Indonesian faces would turn to watch us walk to the bathroom (during which moments it indeed felt like a VERY long boat). Yes, incidentally, white girls do need to pee too. However, we soon made friends with a woman who was married to a westerner (westerner not present) whose stop was before ours but who arranged for her brother (who was getting off at the same place we were) to make sure we arrived safely at a hotel, as it would be around 3 am. Sara also got to chatting with another Indonesian who spoke English, and as it turned out he was staying at the same place we were. The next day, he took it upon himself to arrange for us a vehicle to show us the area and take us to a long house, which is what we really wanted to see. Honestly, these people must be longtime descendents of Carebears of something...

The next morning, after being taken by an orchid reserve ironically devoid of orchids (don't ask) and the ol' neighbourhood waterfall, we were driven to a small hamlet about an hour outside of Melak in search of a long house (long boat? Long house? Is it just me, or does Borneo seem to be compensating for something? *ahem*). A long house is the traditional manner of communal living which is still quite popular in rural areas. As with the long boat, the long house is exactly what you'd expect it to be. About seventy five feet long and thirty wide, it is made of rough wood planks and houses over ten families. The families each have their own room, and there is also a large communal space running the length of the house. The entire structure is balanced (somewhat precariously, in our opinion) on stilts about twelve feet high, beneath which scurry and squawk an array of cats, dogs, chickens, pigs, and the occasional small child.

We rolled up and were introduced to Linus, former resident of the long house (he nows lives in a regular house, which itself is actually quite long, next door), headmaster of the local school, and--most importantly--English speaker. Without exaggeration, the conversation went as follows:

"Hi! We're from Canada. Uhhhh, we were wondering if we could see your long house?"

"Sure. Would you like to spend the night?"

"Is that possible?"

"No problem. There's currently a ceremony going on at the long house, so it's better that you sleep at my place. I'm Linus. What are your names?"

And that was that. He dismissed all offers of monetary compensation, showed us where to leave our stuff, and invited us to join the meal el fresco of rice and (for the omnivores) fish.

The scene inside the long house was like something out of National Geographic. Two men sat chanting into a kareoke microphone on behalf of the ceremony (more on that later) while others lazed about, nearly all with cigarettes in their mouthes, blue smoke curling and unfurling in shafts of late afternoon sunlight. Babies waddled and chewed on things. Some women wove baskets out of reeds while others texted on their cell phones. Old men sat in impossible crossed legged positions and grinned gummily at one another. Children played undescernable games and ran about, jumping over the babies. There was a game of chess being played in one corner, and a large instrument not unlike the precursor to pot-lid-drums was being played in another.

Of course, as soon as we came in we drew everyone's interest. But no one was able to talk to us, save a young girl who didn't actually live in the long house but was currently visiting relatives, and she soon after we arrived. The children came up to us one by one, curiously, and it wasn't long before we had a semi-circle of nearly a dozen of them sitting before us, waiting for us to do... something. Anything. Other than just sit there and, you know, be white.

We made two important discoveries in that long house. One, candy is enough to win over just about anybody. And two, the best method to world peace is definitely DEFINITELY through Stella Ella Ola.

Now, back to the ceremony that was taking place:

A very important member of the long house had recently died, and the twenty one days following his death (during which time our visit fell) were dedicated to honouring his life. This resulted both in the chanting and the drumming, as well as a large... thing... hanging from the ceiling. We're not sure what it was exactly; it looked like some sort of arts and crafts project, with glittery paper made into simple oragami shapes and god's eyes woven out of sticks and colourful yarn, tiers of painted wooden boxes apparently housing the skeletal remains of the deceased, and a collection of rose patterned china plates suspended from the ceiling. Whatever it was, it was very impressive.

That evening, the ceremony came into full swing. As members of the long houses (and their guests, for the place was bustling with relatives who had come in for the occasion) sat alongside the walls, first the men and then the women danced down the center of the longhouse to thundering drumbeats, adorning fancy headdresses. When it was the women's turn, we were completely caught off-guard when we were suddenly pulled to our feet and pushed into the commotion. An even bigger shock came just a few minutes later when we were asked, through a series of giggles and hand gestures, to lead the ordeal. And so, it was as we led the funeral dance through a Borneon long house whilst wearing a very fancy headdress indeed, we found ourselves thinking: this has got to be pinnacle of the absolute strangest moments of this trip.

In fact, we were wrong. That pinnacle came the very next day. We awoke to the same drumming and chanting that had echoed long throughout the night, and went to the long house expecting to find a similar scene to that of yesterday's.

Instead, what we found were about six human skulls (and three coconuts with faces drawn on them in magic marker) sitting on a red blanket, chain-smoking.

Let me reiterate: no, seriously.

Family members bustled around these skulls (one of which still had a partial set of dentures in place), rubbing ash them and "feeding" them bits of egg. Small bundles of food offerings were arranged on platters. A woman wailed hauntingly, though it was impossible to tell if her laments were genuine or just theatrics of tradition. A man waved a fern as well as an extremely unfortunate chicken by its feet. And, what seemed as most importantly, people continuously lit cigarettes and propped them into the skulls' mouthes--so much so that we couldn't help but think, if these people weren't dead already, they certainly would be after all that chain-smoking.

Perhaps the oddest element of the scene was how nonchalent everyone was about it. People came and went, watching for a few moments and then being distracted by something, kids ran underfoot, there was more texting. It seemed just like a normal family get-together, except with all the ancients seated eternally grinning at the table.

And THEN (isn't there always an "and THEN" at times like this?), suddenly all the skulls were wrapped in their blankets like hard candies and donned on the backs of the living like little rucksacks. And then, life got a whole lot worse for the (probably now nauseous) chicken, as well as a small pig we hadn't noticed wrapped in a bit of tarpaulin. That's right--it just ain't a party without animal sacrifices. Needless to say, Sara was the official sacrifice photographer, as vegetarian me turned the colour of tofu, and was probably just as wobbly.

All the while, a faint redition of Stella Ella Ola was carried over on the wind...

To wrap up: Linus's hospitality was unwavering as he not only drove us back into town but bought us to lunch en route. Our long house adventure was followed by yet another long boat ride, and then a long bus ride--which took place in a normal-sized bus but lasted twenty three hours, the majority of which were spent subjected to extremely lound Indonesian pop music.

Needless to say, we both agree that this was by far one of the highlights of the last seven months (erm, bloodshed excluded). And perhaps the coolest thing about it was that it was so genuine. This hadn't been organised by some tour operator, nor was it some troop putting on a cultural show for us. This was real people going about their daily lives, and we were fortunate enough to somehow manage to weasel our way in on the action. It was exactly the Borneo we'd come searching for--in fact, it was just the thing that had led us out into the Great Wide Yonder in the first place...