Bathing with Roosters and Speaking Without Words

When I say that we climbed a quarter mile uphill through a rainforest, I mean that the entire journey was straight up. No stairs. No railing. Just a few tethered ropes and a lot of mud. When we finally ascended the root-laden terrain, we mounted a tall scaffolding which provided a beautiful canopy view. I’d been to a rainforest before in Costa Rica, but this experience was completely different. Not only did it not rain once during our hike, but I also got much higher than I had before. I climbed to the top of the canopy with my friend Marquis. He spilled some water from one of the high bridges, and we watched as the stream separated into individual droplets, taking several seconds before they splattered noisily to the ground below.

Overlooking the rainforest canopy.

Afterwards, we took another boat ride (and when I say “boat” I should say rickety wooden canoe which bumped so hard against rocks so many times that the motor stalled every hundred yards or so) to the Iban Long House. The Iban tribe gave us as warm a welcome as our other Bruneian friends, only this reception included copious glasses of rice wine (while alcohol was prohibited in the rest of the Islamic country). Rice wine was handed to us at the door, served again at lunch and dinner, and given in large quantities at a fake wedding celebration later that evening. For those of us who didn’t drink, the evening involved lots of glass passing, and for those who did drink, it involved lots of glass downing. In the end, everyone was happy.

Boating to the Iban Long House.

After the first glass of wine, we were served a warm lunch of sweet rice cooked in bamboo stalks served with heavily salted chicken. We ate in the foyer of the Long House, which, living up to its name, consisted of a long hallway with fifteen doorways. Inside each doorway was an entire home (both upstairs and downstairs) where a family of nine or ten lived. The houses were not equal in status; some were rather modest, like our home which had no air conditioning and working fans in only some of the rooms, but others were rather posh, boasting televisions and running showers.

We broke into pairs for rooming assignments. Toyosi and I were assigned House 14. Our family had nine children ranging in ages from five to 22. The youngest was celebrating her birthday the day we arrived. The oldest had previously worked as the sultan’s personal cook and spoke of baking him chicken pie. (I had hoped to awake the next morning to a twelve course breakfast, but my lack of royal blood reduced me to an excellent breakfast of brown sugar rice and fried spring rolls instead.)

We talked with our family for hours on end. We were lucky as many of our contemporaries were assigned families who couldn’t speak any English. We came across this problem only with the mother and the young boys (the latter of which probably could speak English but were too busy boasting that they enjoyed “smokes” at the young ages of eight and ten). We met some of the younger girl’s friends who listened to us read from their Malay chapter books and laughed at our misguided pronunciations.

Toyosi and I with our housemother and two youngest "siblings," Suraya and Sita.

Later in the afternoon we went for a quick swim in the lake and then we returned for showers before cooking lessons. Bathing proved difficult as the shower consisted of a bucket and hose. I showered twice, first with a bath rag, and then, by spooning yellow water over my head and each limb; both times I showered to the clucking of roosters in the back yard. I left the shower feeling dirtier than I’d come.

Washed and dried, I wandered inside another Iban house for cooking lessons. I sat on the ground with an elderly woman and stuffed greens into hollow bamboo stalks with a silver spoon, pounding the stalks every few spoonfuls to make room for more vegetables. I watched as the packed stalks were set over a roaring flame and engulfed in smoke. To the side, vats filled with boiling rice and stewing chicken bubbled and hissed.

Stuffing greens into hollow bamboo stalks.

Then, I joined a circle of classmates to shell hard-boiled eggs. I was unlucky enough to de-shell my first egg only to discover that the hardened yoke had burst through the white. “It’s ugly, you have to eat it,” one of my friends told me, explaining that they’d been told aesthetics mattered for the dish but waste wasn’t tolerated. Luckily, I was sitting by Malhar who loved hard boiled eggs and agreed to eat mine. He also agreed to eat every other girl’s ruined eggs and soon felt quite ill. From then on, I was careful about which eggs I selected.

Saffa and Ceewin shelling hard boiled eggs.

Finally, we made our way to the dessert table where we were handed a long rod with a coconut shell with holes tied to the end. We filled the coconut shell with a thick batter and then poured it into a frying pan sizzling with hot oil. Running through the small holes, the batter made a netting-like formation. As it began to harden, we folded it in half with a spatula and then in half again, careful not to flatten the air from its edges. Upon sampling, it tasted like sweet cinnamon, reminding me of the fried tortilla dessert you can order at many typical Mexican restaurants. 

Hui Qian, our Program Assistant, tries her hand at the "netting" dessert.

After a quick dinner enjoyed cross-legged on the floor (dinner preparation was the more social aspect of dinner; the actual eating took very little time), we joined the elderly ladies for bamboo weaving lessons. I spent the next few hours entwining bamboo leaves into place mats and table settings. I became fast friends with one lady in particular who couldn’t speak any English. I learned by watching her patterns and then following her directions of head shakes (meaning, “no”) and humming (meaning, “yes”). Then, once I’d caught hold of the pattern, I taught my friends. When Roxanne and I left, we’d grossed four place mats and two place settings combined. I felt like my fingernails would fall off when I finally stood up to return my goods to my room.

Weaving place mats with our feet and fingers.

Roxanne, our "grandmother," and I (several hours later) with our finished products!

Then we joined the rest of our classmates for a fake wedding party, joining Madison and Ian (two of the students on the trip) in matrimony. Basically an Iban wedding is just an excuse to drink massive amounts of rice wine. Rice wine was drunk before, during, and after the ceremony. It was especially important during the three loops around the hall which the married couple must make to seal their vows. After each circle, everyone in the wedding party (including guests) had to down a glass of wine. At the end of the ceremony, we were told that the tradition had been westernized for us tourists and that in actuality the wedding party would drink a glass of wine at each doorway. With fifteen doors passed three times each, that adds up to 45 glasses of wine, not taking into account the other glasses consumed at either end of the ceremony. What baffled me most was that the wedding couple is not allowed to sleep during their first night of marriage and must instead keep awake all night playing board games. I can’t imagine the level of concentration required to play Mancala after 50+ drinks. Counting marbles can prove difficult even sober and well-rested.

The happy couple, Ian and Madison.

The wedding ceremony was also filled with dancing. The traditional lady’s dance involved soft arm movements and careful twirls, but I preferred the male’s dance which consisted of a series of sharp stomps. I’d never heard such a loud sound as the dancer made with his bare heel. It was genuinely impressive and sent me jumping every time. The girls had the chance to try the lady’s dance and the guys had the chance to follow the male dancer. When it came to the stomping, the male lead broke into fits of laughter at our classmates’ harried attempts.

I'm not sure that I should call this dancing. Maybe just "The Attempt."

Leaving the Iban village foreshadowed the tearful farewells we’d make to our other Bruneian friends first at the University and then again at the airport. The Iban villagers lined up along the vast hallway, each touching their hearts and then their lips as they wished us farewell. My weaver friend, which I’d come to accept as a surrogate grandmother of sorts, had tears in her eyes as she pulled me close. 

Saying, "goodbye," to a few of our many friends from the University of Brunei.

We had not been able to speak with many of the villagers, yet we’d found a more meaningful style of communication: one through the heart and eyes. But with the help of language and time, we’d grown even closer to the students and professors at the University of Brunei, and so leaving them was doubly hard. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the chance to return to Brunei, but I do know that whether I visit in person or not, a small part of my heart will always remain with the people who live there.