Introduction

SINCE 1992 I have lived amongst the Temuan - one of eighteen Orang Asli tribes indigenous to Peninsular Malaysia and officially classified as “Austronesian” or “Proto-Malay” (though the latter term has recently fallen out of academic favor). Their ancestral hunting grounds once covered much of the central portion of the Malay peninsula (known in antiquity as the Chersonese of Gold). 

Gunung Rajah (the Royal Mountain), which marks the boundary between the states of Selangor and Pahang, is revered as pusat negri or “the navel of the nation.” Temuan creation myths invariably name Gunung Rajah as the birthplace of the present human race, Manusia. 

The word temuan derives from temu, to meet. It means a crossroads or convergence or a plateau where all faces of a mountain meet. Bukit Temuan, two kilometers northeast of Kuala Kubu Bharu, once bore a major Temuan settlement. Loggers have now desecrated the hill and it bleeds red earth after every heavy downpour. 

Hitap Anak Hitam (Yam Kokok) photographed by Vignes Balasingam on 18 June 2008

There is every likelihood that the Temuan are actually a synthetic group, a genetic fusion of several aboriginal tribes with Sumatran and Javanese migrants. The Temuan language can be considered the original Negri Malay dialect believed to have been imported from Jambi, southeastern Sumatra - but, bearing in mind that the entire Malay Archipelago was actually a continuous land mass before the rising of the seas, the greater likelihood is that Malay was already a well-established lingua franca in the region. Its Sanskrit derivations probably pre-date the Majapahit Empire of the 13th to 15th centuries. The modern Bahasa used in Indonesia and Malaysia has a grammatical sophistication acquired from more recent Arabic and Anglo-European influences. Despite many unanswered (and perhaps unanswerable) questions surrounding paleoanthropological research in this region where climatic conditions, political sensitivities, and economic priorities conspire against systematic excavation and the preservation of artifacts, it is difficult not to conclude that the Temuan are indeed the taproot of the Malay race. Their own traditions speak distinctly of their ancestral linkages.

A popular Temuan story with many variations tells of two brothers who attended a gathering of the Earth tribes in “the age of grace when humans understood the speech of animals.” On their way home a storm broke and capsized their vessel. Abang (the elder) grabbed his blowpipe before plunging into the raging waves and swimming to shore. Adik (the younger) managed to save only a sacred scroll. But that was enough to give him the upper hand over Abang, who remained a hunter-gatherer while Adik acquired book-learning, institutionalized religion, and the ability to write new laws.

Adik also recorded in writing many of the original Temuan “bedside stories” featuring archetypal animal characters like Sang Kancil (Mousedeer), Sang Buaya (Crocodile), and Sang Harimau (Tiger) - which read like a tropical version of Kenneth Grahame's Wind in the Willows and have become an important element of mainstream Malay folk culture. 

Engangement ceremony, March 1995. I had to "engkim" with the Asli Mafia
despite my body's aversion to alcohol!

EVEN WITH my modest command of Malay, I found it easy to converse with the Temuan elders on a variety of topics, ranging from ancient traditions to current affairs. Unfortunately, by the time I got accepted as an honorary member (or at least a trusted friend) of the tribe, there were very few elders left who remembered the old stories, or who had sufficient breath left to tell them. Initially some seemed a little reticent, being unused to questions about their tribal heritage. The fear of being exploited or ridiculed by outsiders was understandably prevalent. However their attitude towards me changed from mild curiosity to genuine warmth when I performed the nuptial rites with Anoora Chapek in June, 1995. Suddenly I was family, and they were eager to educate me about their worldview and their immense knowledge of the jungle. (The melodramatic ups and downs of sharing a hut with my newly acquired "savage punk princess" deserves some sort of documentation, but the story is better suited to a soap-opera or sit-com rather than a speculative mythology). 

Within the last few years so many of the older folk have died, I am grateful to have known them just long enough to hear a mere handful of Temuan tales. “We have many more stories,” said Anoora's favourite uncle, Diap Anak Ketum, with a sad smile, “but not much time left to tell them.”

Mak Wan in 1992. Medicine woman & second wife to
Diap, she was reputed to be a real siren in her youth 

Mak Wan, whose official name was Buntal (Puffer Fish), was a medicine woman and second wife of Diap. Like her husband, she had a long history of gastritis and tuberculosis, and was always too ill to talk. Whenever I visited her in her ramshackle hut or in the district hospital, she would gaze at me with a weary sigh: “Everything's breaking down, especially this rickety old body.” Sometimes I could offer little cheer apart from reminding her that in the spirit world one knows no pain or suffering. Other times I would offer her the small solace of some throat lozenges (she had acquired a taste for Fisherman's Friend) or a gift miniature of cognac (which she at first mistook for an embrocation). She was very grateful for an old blanket and pullover donated by urbanite friends.

One evening she arrived at her sister-in-law Indah's house to watch television (on an archaic black-and-white set powered by a car battery) and found the floor already full. I made room for her and she shuffled over with a broad, toothless grin. When she had settled in comfortably she patted me on the shoulder and announced: “This one is like a son to me!”  I shall never forget the warm glow and sense of honor I felt. It was the first gesture of genuine acceptance from the tribe.     

In early 1994 Mak Wan returned to her home village in Pahang. She took ill again and was admitted to the hospital in Raub. She expired soon after being discharged, while chatting quietly with her husband, When I heard the news I had a fleeting vision of her as a vivacious woman of 30, the veritable belle of her village. Diap was utterly inconsolable. It transpired that the witchy old Mak Wan had cast a love spell on him, to keep him faithful (well-known flirt that he was); and the spell could only be broken by jampi (medicine) more powerful than Mak Wan's. The resident shaman of Pertak Village, Sibin Aus, was unable to relieve Diap's broken heart. 

Diap Anak Ketum, among the last
keepers of tribal lore,
died on 14 February 1997

ONE MORNING I found the old man wheezing and heaving outside Indah's shanty. I took Diap to see a doctor who prescribed some pills to ease his breathing, saying there was little else that could be done, since Diap's lungs were almost completely collapsed. When I asked Diap if he wanted to be admitted to the hospital he vehemently shook his head. He had recently spent about two months in government hospitals, and was sick of doctors and their arbitrary prescriptions. (I was aghast to discover that poor Diap had been erroneously issued massive doses of heart medication when, in fact, his heart had never been the problem, “broken” though it be.) Indah and her sister Minah chided me for not being firmer with Diap, whom they regarded as being unnecessarily manja (demanding of affection and attention). Both sisters were tired of looking after the old man and wanted him off their hands, at least for a few days. 

“Oh, let him stay here in familiar surroundings,” I pleaded. “He may not have much time left.” Twelve hours later (on Valentine's Day, 1997) Diap Anak Ketum was reunited with his beloved Mak Wan. At his funeral I heard the wali  (guardian of ceremonial protocol) address Diap's spirit by his esoteric name: 

“Seri Pagi! Wake up! Wake up!” the wali commanded, whipping the freshly covered burial mound with a bundle of leaves. “Come on, don't be tardy, get up now! This isn't your home anymore! We've made a temporary shelter for you, stocked with everything you might need before you fly off to the mountain to rejoin your ancestors on Pulau Buah. So don't hang around here bothering the living, do you hear? We bid you a speedy journey home, Seri Pagi!”    

With that the funeral service was over. As we made our slow way back to the village, I asked Indah why the wali had called Diap by a different name. “Seri Pagi is his true name,” Indah explained. “He was given that name at birth and now he must reclaim it.” Seri Pagi. Morning Glory? Glorious Morning? In either case, a beautiful name for a such a noble and romantic being.

I HAD APPROACHED Seri Pagi many times with a gentle request for permission to document some of his stories. “You must do it for the sake of your grandchildren and their grandchildren,” I told him. “Each of us has a duty to fulfill before we depart the physical world, and I feel that this is yours.” 

Nadi Pak Empok (Antares)

Often he would smile apologetically and a look of unutterable fatigue would cross his weathered but still-handsome features. “It's been so long, I don't know if I can remember that much,” he would begin. Then a mischievous twinkle would flash in his eyes: “Maybe if I had a little drink, it might help my memory!” Well, he wasn't supposed to imbibe. Alcohol aggravated his ulcers and after each binge he would be in bad shape for days. 

Once in a while, his sisters Indah and Minah would forget their pledge to keep Seri Pagi from temptation, and an evening of jollity fueled by a bottle or two of toddy (a coconut palm wine popular with working-class Indians) would ensue, leading to spirited reminiscences and the recounting of many long-forgotten stories. I was lucky to be present at several of these sessions, and what little I have gleaned from Seri Pagi, Mak Minah, and their brother Utat has been augmented by valuable contributions and commentary from Penengah Apak Busu Pegoi (who balik Pulau - departed for the Isle of Fruits - on 30 April 1998, at 91 the oldest man in Pertak Village), his wife Piah Agok, and their eldest son Utih, a humble soft-spoken man. 

Another willing and eloquent informant was Nadi Pak Empok, master of the pantun (a humorous poetic form akin to the limerick) - who, to our great distress, suffered a stroke in October 1996, and expired exactly one week after Seri Pagi's departure. Indah's husband Rasid Aus was a great help with confirming names and verifying certain information. His elder brother Sibin Aus, resident shaman of Pertak, provided a few marvelously lucid insights during his sober moments.

One gets the feeling that, as individuals, the Temuan don't pretend to understand their own legends. The mere act of remembering “the stories grandma used to tell” appears to magically enliven their tribal semangat (spirit). Long may it live.      

I dedicate this work to them. And to their grandchildren's grandchildren. And, of course, to Ahau Ben (firstborn of my sacred union with Anoora) who arrived on the Vernal Equinox of 1996.

Ahau Ben with delighted grandmother Indah Merkol in 1996 (Antares)