Sumatra - Siberut Island August 2003

We cannot help being slightly intimidated by the look of the army of fairly rough looking locals amongst which loudly rattling old ladies and chaps in loincloths and extensive tattoos on legs arms and body. None of them seem to have a proper set of teeth and big roll-ups are dangling from their mouths while generously helping themselves to more cigarettes offered them as gifts. I have my doubts if I will be feeling comfortable among them. But our guides seem to know them very well and are engaged in embraces and lively banter.

We have just arrived from a 1,5 hour journey over river in a giant motorized hollow tree and this is where the trek will begin. A 10 day trek to Siberut Island, part of the Mentawai Islands, located off the west coast of Sumatra.
The Mentawai sustain an ancient culture that has been labeled as primitive, being a self-supporting society based on ancient customs and rituals with an own language being very different from Bahasa Indonesia. Their faith is animistic although the missionaries have been and are still trying to convert them to Christianity. One of our fellow passengers was a Dutch priest, he himself active in charity projects near Lake Toba, on his way to visit a missionary friend on North Siberut. On the other hand Islam, the mainstay religion of Indonesia, is making inroads judging by the mosques we see in the more modern government villages.

We have had two days of travel behind us. Our first night the attempt at crossing the 120 km sea between mainland Sumatra and Siberut Island is a failure with the captain deciding to head back to the port of Padang due to the bad sailing conditions. The boat in question, the Sumberezekibaru, was a suspicious looking wooden contraption of about 40 meter long and 7 meter wide with space for about 100 people on board. Supposedly it was the best one that did the route.
Our group, consisting of Mike and Geoffrey from Holland, Violetta from Germany, 5 Czech people and myself, has a spartan 6 person hut in which sleeping is close to impossible due to the deafening noise of the wooden walls and beds that are constantly expanding and contracting with the movement of the boat on the waves. The first hour in bed I desperately try to hold on to the sides of the bed in order not to fall off when the boat rolls over to the other side. At long last I manage to wedge myself against the wall. An excursion to the toilets in the ship is a dangerous and even messier affair.
When waking up in the morning I see land through the porthole. We are in Padang, says Mike, and I think he must be mistaken. But no, the rough sea and especially many trees that were drifting in our way made the captain decide to abort the attempt to reach Siberut.
The rest of the day we spend hanging around in Padang waiting for the night boat to do a second attempt, which in the end proofs successful although we cannot quite agree on whether the sea was actually rougher the second night or not.

The day we arrive we walk to our first stop at the uma or clanhouse where a crowd of people is awaiting us. This particular one turns out to be built especially for tourists, which is a bit disappointing but the set-up is authentic as are the 'extras' albeit not the actual inhabitants of the house.
Walking in Siberut is an art in itself. The swampy ground becomes extremely muddy after rain and trails of tree trunks on which to walk have been established. For the skilled Mentawai on their bare feet not an issue. For us, not used to balancing ourselves and encumbered by trainers collecting centimeters of gunk, a real challenge. What it doesn't have in elevation, Siberut is fairly flat aside a couple of minor hills, it makes up in type of terrain. The Mentawai need no bridges, rivers are crossed either by walking through them or over trees. In the days that follow we get more and more skilled in balancing and keeping our nerves in check, and by the end of the trek we have become reasonably skilled tightrope walkers. Nevertheless we still occasionally make spectacular wipe outs, with one of our legs vanishing in the deep mud. My personal pet peeve is the little tree trunk ladders, structures I before only ever have seen used as duck ladders in city ponds. These form the access to the houses that are built on stilts and to and from the river, and are especially slippery in the early morning.

I was pretty pleased with myself finally having mastered the 'Asian wipe', so I decided not to take any toilet paper. Again an item less in my already full daypack. Unfortunately the Mentawai are not familiar with the Indonesian habit of mandi and do not have separate toilets with water basins and a water scoop for this purpose. On Siberut the jungle is one big toilet and the green around you toilet paper. This is bad news for someone with only half a pack of tissues and without 'green fingers'. Luckily Violetta has brought an entire role and I can borrow off her.
Going to the toilet is by the way one of the few subjects of embarrassment among the Mentawai. One does not talk about it one does not spot anyone doing it. At no time do I ever see any proof of bowel movements in the bushes. Maybe they have found a cure against it or maybe they go for total absorption? Because the Mentawai have the most toned bodies I have ever laid eyes on! All muscles and not a gram of fat on their bodies, except for maybe the women.

Life for the Mentawai is literally survival of the fittest without medical care and Spartan living conditions. Babies of women who die during childbirth and for whom no other breastfeeding woman can be found in the clan will be laid with the dead mother to die with her. Adolescence does not exist. Children get married when they are as young as 13 and will have babies even before they are 15. From child to adult in one go, but also a child plays a vital role in the clan life. Children perform adult tasks and adults behave a bit like children resulting in a high sense of responsibility on the one hand a lot of fun in the community. Like the average Indonesian the Mentawai are big jokers and seem to be very tolerant people.

The next day we accompany a group of people to durian harvesting. Siberut is full of durian trees and eating durian is a national sport. But Siberut boasts all kinds of natural riches. Coconuts, bananas, cassava, sago, papaya, mango to name a few, and many edible seeds and fruits we had never heard of before. We sample them as we go along, berries, jackfruit and bigger round type of fruit that look like dragon eye fruit.
One young man skillfully climbs a very tall Durian tree with only a sturdy vine and a machete to make holes for the feet. One by one he pulls the Durian fruit off the tree with a long stick with a crooked end. All the Durians will be taken off the tree. Ripe or half ripe, each has their merits. We stay well away in the meanwhile as durian are the size of a melon and have a very hard spiky skin. Story goes that there are people who have had one of these on their heads and survived, but I am not so sure about that.

While we are watching we become aware that there are an awful lot of bees circling around us. It takes a moment or two before we realize they are not just passing through. A durian must have fallen on their nest because we are under attack! Everybody is panicking and we run following one of the Mentawai girls, as it happens towards a riverbed. She gestures us to submerge in a pool. Mike and I sit there for at least 20 minutes scooping water over our heads to drive away the bees. The water around us filled with dead bees. I have only been stung once. Mike ends up with about five stings and wakes up next morning with one eye shut. Violetta however was with our guide Ed when the attack started and gets the advice to put a plastic bag over her head. When the bees start to get into the bag and she looks around for further advice the guide has fled and has left her to her own devices.
When we count the number of bee stings on her later I come to fifty on her back, neck and arms alone. Luckily nobody is allergic to bee stings. Our guide's only defense later on is that he has never been in a similar situation before and that he has also been stung badly. Not having been impressed with him from the start of the trek, this causes serious doubts with us about his capabilities to lead a jungle trek.
The rest of the day we chill by a tall waterfall allowing us all to catch our breath and do some necessary grooming. At night back in the clan house our adventure of the day leads to many a tall story being told by the Mentawai that were present. Although we cannot understand what they are saying their enthusiasm in retelling the story is contagious. 'Orang touris' this and 'orang touris' that.

At night we sleep in the open area of the clan house under tent like structures made of mosquito net material. This is no luxury since this swampy terrain is home to the malaria carrying mosquito and the place is absolutely heaving with them, which we notice most of all on the last day when we are all out of mozzy spray. My elbows are so swollen it's not funny anymore.

The Mentawai approach smoking with almost religious zeal. The Indonesians are big smokers but are easily outdone by the Mentawai. They smoke continuously, the men as well as the women. And cigarettes that even the Indonesians will not touch, obscure brands such as Kaiser and Sury Mas only for sale in one shop in Bukittinggi, our base camp before the trek. But we also bring them more expensive brands Garam and Dji Sam Soe. The Shamans largely smoke their home brewed roll-ups made tapioca leaves and tobacco rolled in banana leave. The result is a loosely rolled wide but stubby cigarette they keep in the corner of their mouth at all time. My own father would have felt right at home with them! Continuously we are being asked for cigarettes. But apart from cigarettes we see so many things we could have brought for them. Like shampoo, soap, toothbrushes, toothpaste, elastic bands for the women's hair, torches, pens, books, clothes, etc. And money pouches! Almost all shamans carry a pouch for their few possessions. In the past that used to be little hollowed out and decorated coconuts but this is one thing that already had to make way for more convenient modern ware.
Ed our guide says the Mentawai are not unlike children, forever playful and wide eyed. Initially I am rather embarrassed of the presents I have brought along, but they like most of them. The fake butterfly tattoos that I apply to the children's arms are a great success. One young strapping shaman also shows an interest in getting a fake tattoo on his arm, but all I have left is a ladybug tattoo which he does not think very cool.
I apply a strass butterfly tattoo on the sternum of the elderly lady, the materfamilias of the clan house. She is positively chaffed. The other ladies of the clan immediately gather around her and try to pull it off. I tried to stop them as these things only properly stay glued on once which the old lady thinks is hilarious. Deftly she warns the others to keep their hands off her. Nevertheless it is taken off and round the group. I try to reapply it on her arm this time. Later she goes in the back of the house and when she comes back it is gone. Maybe she is keeping it for later use?

The group of Czech people and one guide is leaving our group the next day. This leaves us with only a party of four and our guide accompanied by two cooks and a couple of porters from the last camp. We arrive at the Satoko clan where a healing ceremony took place yesterday for a man and child with small pocks. Today a celebration ceremony is under way. The first thought when I enter the clan house is that I have never seen such a bunch of dodgy fuckers. I take my watch off as precaution.
One of the shamans who speaks a few words of English tells me during introductions that he has once been to England at the invitation of a missionary. He did not like it there one bit. An old bare-chested leathery woman walks around in trance. Later I will warm up to her but at the moment I feel less than enchanted. As we arrive six or so shamans are busy cutting up a freshly slaughtered pig. Later on the pig is cooked and we join in the meal.
In spite of the availability of many varieties of food their diet is fairly monotonous. Everything is cooked leading to rather bland dishes. Sago roasted in palm leafs used to be the main staple but nowadays, imported rice has partially replaced sago. None of the food seems to go to the pack of dogs that is roaming around in the house. They look as Spartan as the people themselves and seem nearly wild. Many a fight breaks out in the middle of the clan house and they get a lot of stick from the Mentawai. Any scraps are thrown through the floorboards towards the pigs roaming under the house. From the sound of it the dogs sometimes try to outsmart the pigs but the latter are as good if not better at the survival game and not much is surrendered to the dogs.

During the whole afternoon the shamans are hanging around in little groups, once in a while bursting out in chanting. The action starts towards the end of the afternoon. They emerge from the jungle with big fresh leaves stuck in their loincloths and with a red, black and white decorative apron. When the dancing and singing starts I am overwhelmed. The rest of the clan is relaxed and does their own thing. In between the dancing sometimes the shamans paused to catch their breath drinking hot tea with lot of sugar (brought from Bukittinggi by our guide). In spite of the ceremony there seems to be little formality. No solemn silence or veneration by the rest of the clan. More for this reason the whole activity radiates authenticity, it is part of life, not strange or special. We, the 'orang touris' also get the feeling we are part of the group and not just some hangers on. Children are leaning against us and during the breaks the shamans rest their heads against us in moments of reflection. I feel relaxed and simply enjoy the 'show'.

The floor in the back of the clanhouse where the dances are performed has especially for the dances floating floorboards. This makes that the dancing feet make the sound of tapdancing. The instruments that accompany the dances are a long, slim, python skin drum, a thick metal pot like instrument. One boy who can not be older than 10 years is accompanying the dances on drum. After midnight we retreat to our mosquito net tents and try to sleep while the chanting and dancing continues. Now and again the chanting is very low key and I drift off to sleep, only to wake up with a shock when the stamping on the floorboards starts again.

The next morning most of the shamans don't look too fresh anymore. This was the second night of continuous dancing.

The next day the ceremony comes to an end and we join a group for another durian harvest. We see two shamans effortlessly climb a tree. At least a 100 durians are being pulled from the tree. Many a durian gets eaten at the spot and when we come back with the loot the complete clan throws itself on them and young and old is hacking away at the thick thorny skin.
At as young an age as 1 year the children learn to handle a machete. At night sago larvae is on the menu. Cooked like all the food. It's a fat white grub with a black head. As you have got to try it all I eat one. It tastes good, like lard it's very fatty. But the head is crunchy and I don't particularly like the idea of eating a maggot like creature!
Our cooks tonight make us spaghetti instead. Every night they make too much and the plenty leftovers go to the Mentawai as dessert. After their own meal they have no problem squeezing in the remaining pasta. At each meal the clan is divided in groups of nuclear families who sit around a big round shared dish.

At the end of that day the shamans and their families get ready to leave for their own houses. Violetta and I are taking a bath in the river and we say goodbye to the groups of people on their way out. En passant they pick up our soap and shampoo. The wife of one of the shamans comes back to pick up her baby and on her way back she wants to inspect my boobs. Violetta had already been subject to a similar inspection earlier that day. I cannot help feeling slightly embarrassed with the situation. But I can imagine that while they walk bare-chested most of the time, they must wonder if why we are hiding ours!

The last two days we walk towards our pick up point and the nights we stay in two more clan houses. The last night we stay with the Sekalio clan with a couple of charismatic shamans, father and son. The father, 'Cookie' has strange wounds on his feet and I stick a pretty band-aid on it which no doubt is useless. I hope for him it is not too serious.

The young shaman and his young son take us in their motorized boat made of one massive tree to our drop off point. As he takes a corner another boat emerges from the other side. We tilt heavily over to one side scooping up water as we thump into the other boat. I can just picture us all in the water. But miraculously we manage to all stay in the boat. The Mentawai laugh it off and we continue on our journey back to the coast where we will walk to the harbour to catch our boat for another rough ride back to Padang. This time we fortunately make it one go.