 |
| Many-lined Sun Skink (Eutropis multifasciata) Photo courtesy of Ecology Asia |
About six months after I'd settled in at my new Ceremonial Guardian's Official Residence, Ramu showed up with a couple of Mohans and their cousin-brother, Elangor. They had two birds to kill with one stone: first, they were keen to visit me in my new jungle habitat; and second, they were interested in checking out the collapsed tunnel behind my hut.
No one seems to know exactly when the tunnel collapsed - or the precise number of miners that got trapped. It could have been in 1907 or 1908. Or perhaps even 1909. And I've heard 200-300 human casualties. Bidar Chik, the new batin (headman), told me his grandfather had been caretaker and gardener for the Chinese towkay (Big Boss) who owned and managed the mine. “He was the second man in Selangor to possess a motorcar,” was Bida's description of the towkay. I've been told tungsten was being mined. But it could have been silver or gold. The area lies between Perak (which means “silver”) and Pahang (where they say the Mother Lode of Gold begins). Whatever it was he was digging for, the towkay had ordered a tunnel blasted right through the foot of Bukit Suir. I was told the tunnel originallly emerged at the top of Lata Chehek (the Mother Fall) where the remains of rusty steel pipes and mooring pins can still be found.
Ramu & Co. had come prepared. They produced powerful flashlights and asked if I could show them the tunnel entrance. I had been meaning to explore the dank shaft myself - but the only flashlight I had at hand seemed a mite frail for such a spooky expedition. So I put on my wellies and led Ramu & Co. into the dark, dripping maw of Bukit Suir, which once housed a whole colony of the dreaded jungle sirens known as Lang Suir.
Bats fluttered around our ears as we trudged through six-inch-deep water and slime, watching out for watersnakes. It was soon apparent that we were in a four-foot-wide shallow trench cut for the railcarts that once ferried ore out of the mine shaft. On both sides of the trench, indentations marked the spots where wooden sleepers had been laid to support the rails (long ago looted by scrap merchants). A spring now flowed through the tunnel, keeping the walls perpetually damp. After twenty minutes or so (it was impossible to keep track of time), the tunnel abruptly ended in a heap of rubble.
“Let's see if we can locate the tunnel again further up the hill. Maybe we can find an opening beyond the rockfall,” Ramu suggested.
Ramu & Co. had brought extra long parangs too. There was going to be a lot of undergrowth to slash through. It was a good adventure in the best Indiana Jones tradition, I mused. We found a spot that looked like it could be where the old tunnel continued, but upon closer approach - after another half-hour of sweaty slashing, mainly by Ramu (who impressed me with his phenomenal stamina) - it turned out to be impassable. Ramu's perfect teeth flashed in a broad, disarming grin: “Don’t worry, I shall return!”
ANOTHER INDIAN FRIEND, Jeyaraman, had told me some fantastic stories about the hill behind my hut where the tunnel began. He knew someone who had gone up Bukit Suir with a small party of treasure-hunters, led by a Malay bomoh (magician). A ritual sacrifice was made and incantations offered to the Penunggu (guardian spirit). Kemenyan was burned and prayers recited. The group was convinced there was gold in “them thar hills.” Specifically, they believed there were railcarts laden with gold-rich ore, buried during the cave-in. After a lengthy meditation, everyone in the group began to doze off. They suddenly awoke to a flesh-crawling sensation and a very low tremor, rumbling through the hill itself. What they beheld was a sixty-foot specter, a black shadowy shape against the midnight sky, looming over them in a somewhat menacing stance. The bomoh blurted out Allah's name and something from the Koran, whereupon the entire party jumped up and scurried away, never to return.
About a month after I had moved into the High Hut with my canine corps, I began noticing the clammy effects of the tunnel's geomantic exudations. Whenever I returned to the hut after two or three days away, I found the dogs' dishes full of maggots, wriggling in the putrefaction of uneaten food. Something was spooking the mutts, normally a bunch of hearty diners.
An involuntary sense of melancholy sometimes enveloped me like a graveyard mist - but I attributed that to a recent romantic disappointment. Jeyaraman's stories about the tunnel brought to my conscious attention the heavy psychic imprint of this particular power spot. I knew I had to soothe its troubled magnetic field and transmute the etheric pain to pleasure. Yet I felt the weight of its wounded heart as my own, and was unable to act.
The return of Ramu was perfectly timed.
“HELLO, I’M BACK!” Ramu said. And he was on a very special mission. He explained that he had been studying the mystic arts from various magicians in the area, and that he had recently dreamt of the tunnel. He needed my permission as Ceremonial Guardian - and my logistical support as the local resident - to undergo a 15-night meditation inside the tunnel.
At 27, Ramu seemed in a big hurry to become a great Swami - but, then, why not? He certainly had the necessary will power, the willingness, the fearlessness (or recklessness) to go for broke.
“When were you hoping to start?” I asked Ramu.
“If it's okay with you, I shall return tomorrow with my friends and set up a wooden platform inside the tunnel where I can meditate. I shall bring my own rice and other supplies, but I may need your help getting fresh vegetables and fruits.”
“Sounds pretty crazy to me,” I smiled, “but go right ahead!”
I warned him about the unhappy spirits of the hill, and asked if he knew how to release imprisoned souls.
Ramu grinned enthusiastically: “That's my job. My guru told me I could learn a lot and develop my siddhis (psychic powers) very fast by helping to free the tunnel ghosts.”
Within an hour, Ramu and his friends had put together a sleeping platform for him, raised inches above the spring. They laid on a carpet of newspapers and set up a little shrine of ritual tools: small dishes of copper, silver, precious stones, incense, talismanic roots, framed images of Hindu deities and saints. It looked, in fact, almost cosy. Ramu ate a simple meal of rice cooked with milk and some green leaves, peeled a banana for dessert, and washed it down with water.
Then, about a half-hour before the sun disappeared behind the hills, he waved to me cheerily and began his 15-night tunnel meditation.
Each morning Ramu would emerge, grinning, and cook himself some rice. He was delighted to find daun pegaga (a round-leaved creeper rich in nutrients) growing all around my hut, and made it a big part of his diet. The first day Ramu reported that he had sensed the miners' shades almost immediately. In his mind's eye, he saw some of them still moving about half-bent from years of tunnel work. Some of them looked Japanese, Ramu said. He had recited a prayer for them.
The second day, Ramu announced that he had succeeded in releasing a good percentage of the tunnel ghosts. “But some don't wish to leave,” he remarked. In the afternoons after doing his laundry, Ramu would sit for hours reading a thick, clothbound book - which I later learnt was a Tamil translation of ancient spiritual lore. It struck me that Ramu's youthful arrogance was well balanced by his easygoing charm and magnetic good looks.
By the end of the first week, Ramu's routine had been smoothly established. Out of the tunnel at first light. Bath in the freezing stream. Breakfast of fruit or daun pegaga. Laundry, lunch of rice and milk, or rice and soy-sauce. Brief report to the Ceremonial Guardian on the previous night's dreams and visions. Then, after another meal of rice and veggies, back into the tunnel just before twilight. Sometimes he would hand me a shopping list and some cash, seeing I was about to ride into town for supplies.
As the second week began, Ramu grew progressively silent and I began to feel twinges of irritation at his ghostlike presence. His aura was almost visibly glowing, and his demeanor had grown so gentle and peaceful that I felt at times a little annoyed by his apparent saintliness. It did seem a little smug to me. But it was even more annoying that I should find myself feeling such an infantile need to gauge my own “spiritual status” against Ramu's. I began to ignore him and go about my business. He, in turn, stopped giving me detailed reports of his nocturnal vigil inside the tunnel, though he did express surprise at how soundly he slept in there - except once or twice when startled by giant frogs or low-flying bats.
A couple of times, I left Ramu to his own devices when I had to visit Kuala Lumpur on some errand or another. I was pleased to find that Ramu had been clearing the yard of weeds and fixing the drainage along the drive - just to keep himself physically active.
At some point Ramu began to boast that he had cleared more than 60% of the residual ectoplasm from the mining disaster. Indeed, I could sense a pleasant change in the psychic atmosphere of the little valley where the High Hut stood. Once or twice, Ramu's friends turned up with fresh supplies and funds for the troglodytic young magician-in-training.
From earlier chats with Ramu, I had gathered that there was quite a remarkable assortment of sorcerers and saints in the vicinity, and that Ramu was acquainted with most of them.
On the fifteenth day, I awoke to find no sign of Ramu. His boots and parang and a few supplies were visible - but he didn't show up even when it was time for me to ride into town. I called for him at the mouth of the tunnel - but his sleeping platform wasn't that far in, and was actually discernible from just outside the entrance. No Ramu.
I had other missing entities to worry about: Mowgli, a three-month-old pup, had disappeared three days ago. When I returned from shopping in the late afternoon, neither Mowgli nor Ramu was to be seen. He couldn't have gone back in there so early, I thought, and was about to check out the tunnel once more when Mowgli came limping home with one paw puffed up to balloon-like proportions. The poor pup had run into a wild pig snare set up by Bidar or his brother Sem and had spent the last couple of days chewing through the heavy-duty nylon fishing-line. He had managed to break free with a tight loop knotted around one paw. I found a pair of surgical scissors and was struggling to cut Mowgli's paw free with the traumatized pup balanced on my lap when Ramu turned up with his Company in tow. He immediately came to my help and, with a single snip, severed the fishing-line constricting Mowgli's paw.
Meanwhile, Ramu's friends had begun packing his worldly belongings and taking them to a waiting car. Ramu tried to explain briefly what had happened on his fourteenth night, but there was too much confusion to make sense of his story. Apparently, Ramu had been communicating with the Penunggu of Bukit Suir - asking it to reveal itself or some major magical secret. Perhaps Ramu was attempting to capture a spirit ally for himself - and the Penunggu of Bukit Suir was certainly no run-of-the-mill jin.
Whatever the reason, the Penunggu had obliged Ramu on the fourteenth night. In Ramu's words, “The Penunggu was demonstrating his power, challenging me. Suddenly I saw blue sparks coming out of my body. It felt like hundreds of electric shocks. I couldn't stand it anymore. The Penunggu was too strong. I ran out of the tunnel, shaking. Then I decided to walk out to the main road and catch a bus home.”
Ramu thanked me profusely for my hospitality and quickly left with his friends. I didn't see him again for a full three years. Not long ago he suddenly materialized with another Company, this time consisting entirely of Malays and Indonesians. I knew right away Ramu was taking a big-time bomoh and his band of acolytes for a magical mystery tunnel tour.
When they emerged, I asked if there was a “doctor” in the party who could help relieve my friend Larry's throbbing toothache. The man I had identified as Mr Big-Time Bomoh immediately asked for a piece of white cloth (in this instance a section of Ahau's old nappy) and a dash of kerosene. He mumbled something that sounded vaguely Arabic and slapped a few drops of kerosene on Larry's swollen cheek; then he gently whipped the painful spot with the cloth and threw it in the fire. “Does that feel better?” the bomoh demanded in a tone that brooked no defiance.
“I guess so,” Larry muttered politely.
“Don't be so vague! If it's better, say it's better. If not, say it's not!”
“It's better,” Larry said, perhaps to forestall further magical ministrations.
Mr Big-Time Bomoh turned to me and asked if I could catch him a two-headed bengkarung (skink, a cousin of the newt). I told him, if ever I came upon such a marvelous creature, I'd be happy just to capture it on film. He laughed and led Ramu and the rest of his Company trooping off into the sunset.
Toad tears, skink poo, newt sweat, virgin pee, bottled spirits, Arabic oaths... Magicians of the Old School, obviously. All a bit passé, as far as I was concerned. I turned to Larry an hour later: “Is your toothache gone?”
Larry stroked his cheek thoughtfully and said, “Actually, it feels a bit numb. No pain, but I'd better see the dentist tomorrow.”
AT NOON on the Solstice of December 1994, I performed a simple earth-healing ritual on Bukit Suir with Soluntra King, my starsister and a consultant geomancer from Queensland. She had brought with her a bag of aboriginal ochre from the Northern Territory of Australia, and a whole array of crystals. Earlier she had recited a prayer of blessing and release at the mouth of the tunnel. What actually happened cannot easily be described in words: I distinctly felt a strong vortex of Goddess force merging with the ancient Pan energies and anchoring itself right at the top of the waterfall above my hut. At the same time a magnetic link was reactivated between ancient sacred sites in Australia and Malaysia - a connection that had been inactive since the destruction of Lemuria (or Mu). After Soluntra, there were many other energy workers and psychics from various parts of Australia (and later America) who serendipitously showed up at Magick River to perform sacred rituals and stabilize the new magnetic grid.
Since then, the troubled spirit of the hill seems to have lifted, and I no longer sense the anguish of lost souls in the Valley of the Lang Suir. No doubt, Ramu deserves credit for helping clear most of the blocked energies during his fourteen-night sojourn in the “Tunnel of Terror.” For that alone, I believe he deserves full-fledged Swamijihood! Swami Shree Ram. Sounds okay to me.
THERE IS A POSTSCRIPT of sorts to all this and also an epilogue. My Temuan friends had always seemed a little wary of the old tunnel. That's why no one had wanted to live near this idyllic little spot. But soon after Ramu's revisit to the tunnel, a bunch of young Temuan males turned up and sealed the tunnel mouth with tree branches and leaves. I asked them why they had covered the tunnel, and one of them said they didn't want the kids nosing around in there. They thought it might cave in again during the heavy rains. I was touched to know they were capable of such concern, Normally, macho young “warriors” their age would be hanging out at the local bar or snooker parlor, living up to the Orang Asli stereotype of Perennial No-Hopers. Perhaps there was hope for this lot yet.
Just as I was preparing this material for publication, who should turn up again but our friend Swami Shree Ram. This time he announced that he wanted to spend only five nights in the tunnel. Perhaps I ought to rent out the facility as a Ritual Chamber for Aspiring Magicians, I thought. “You’re entirely welcome,” I told Ramu, “but bear in mind it’s the wet season, so watch out for falling roofs!” Ramu just laughed, displaying his incredibly healthy teeth.
Well, it rained on the first night, and again on the second, and after the third damp, drippy, sleepless night, Ramu decided the tunnel was unsafe and canceled his ordeal. This time around, I noticed Ramu had acquired a sense of humor, and was not the least bothered by the fact that his plans had to be shelved. He was also very much more attuned to what was happening in the 3rd Dimensional World of Economics and Politics - and we spent quite a while discussing the imminent collapse of the illusory power structure. In all respects, Ramu had really matured and was much better company than on his first tunnel attempt.
I decided it was time to rename the Tunnel of Terror. From now on I would call it the Tunnel of Transformation!
No comments:
Post a Comment
No Spam, please. We prefer Bacon & Eggs!