The Music Within

Recently the Czech ambassador (Jan Fury) showed up at my house asking for a copy of the Akar Umbi CD.

I had told him there are only 20+ copies left - and they are all with Rafique. So I burned him a copy and also gave him Marina Roseman's CD, Dream Songs of the Malaysian Rainforest, since he's so keen to get his hands on it. That made me realize there are many who really enjoy off-the-beaten-track music, especially if it's aboriginal stuff.

Since June 2009 I have had 7 Akar Umbi tracks on SoundClick.com (downloadable for 75 cents a track) - but there appears to be have been no downloads so far, so I made all the tracks downloadable for free.

Later I realized that SoundClick compresses their music files to low-grade mp3 (128 bits or less!) - whereas BandCamp.com allows high-grade downloads (320-bit mp3 or flac) which is almost as good as wav or cda quality (original CD encoding).

I only discovered BandCamp a few days ago, thanks to a German DJ & audio wizard who stayed with me for a week and helped remaster some ancient tracks.

Well, I realized BandCamp was a much better platform to keep Akar Umbi and Mak Minah's songs online - people can listen for free and also download by paying a small fee.

That's how it should be - those who want to possess the tracks can easily afford a few bucks, while everybody else can still access the music at the best possible quality.

Also, BandCamp allows me to include detailed program notes for each track -  so a complete album download also comes with all the notes and images. This makes it unnecessary to ever consider reissuing the album as a CD - too much trouble to replicate in small quantities - and too difficult to distribute globally.

Digital albums make perfect sense to me, because binary codes are weightless. (A few years ago Universal Music actually expressed an interest in repackaging and distributing Songs of the Dragon - at first regionally, then perhaps globally - but the recording industry went into a slump and they simply dropped the idea.)

So on 7 September 2012, one week before Minah Angong's 82nd birthday, Akar Umbi has found a permanent home (I hope) in cyberspace!

It doesn't matter much to me whether most folks opt to just listen - if even a handful decide to download, I might earn a few extra bucks over the years, to cover my internet bills.

Amazingly, Mak Minah is worth money even after her death. Last year, Solaris Publika embarked on a "TextWalk" project, inscribing short quotes from 60 Malaysian writers & poets in cement.

I was asked to contribute a couple - then they wanted something from Orang Asli folklore, so I let them use a few lines from "Kuda Lari" and they eventually paid me RM500 for that, which I handed to Semboh, Mak Minah's favorite granddaughter, who was so delighted.

I told her Mak Minah still cares for her!

The link to Akar Umbi ~ Songs of the Dragon is http://guanobreath.bandcamp.com/album/songs-of-the-dragon

Guano Breath is an umbrella name for all my musical experiments :-)

By Antares

The Music Within

My mother once told me that every culture in every part of the world has its own form of music, in their own tongue.

I suppose that comes from humans' need to express emotions and feelings. Nowadays, South Koreans have been making waves with their K-Pop songs, matching their music with clever dance routines. Meanwhile, America has seen its music grow from the likes of Motown hits and 70's rock to today's mainstream Pop, largely dominated by artists such as Beyonce and Justin Bieber (talent is questionable).

Music is just as deeply engraved in aboriginal culture as it is in urban culture.

In certain African tribes, songs are very important to villagers, especially during crucial transitions of their lives. Pregnant African women meditate until they believe that they have heard their unborn children's songs.

Each unique melody would become part of every child's life. That is, when a child grows throughout his adolescence, his transition to manhood, his marriage and eventually his death. It will be sung to him by his loved ones. It seems as if music is embedded in their very being, in their lives - that it represents who they are and their individual souls.

 

A performance of the Kadazans' traditional Sumazau dance.

For the Maasai tribe of Kenya, music is the centre of their Eunoto ceremony, where young people who've come of age dance (read: flirt) to the beat of the songs. Men line and chant, while the women stand in front of them, singing in response. A musical dialogue takes place between the two sexes, as their voices create harmony.

This is similar to the Malaysian Kadazans' Sumazau dance which require couples and groups to dance to the symphony of "tagung"s and "sompoton"s, which are traditional musical instruments.

They also sing during rice festivals, just like how you sing in the shower, for personal entertainment.
 

In "The Aborigines Who've Walked for 40,000 Years", an article written by David Vanne, an Australian aborigine tells him about how some songs by his tribe are actually tunes laced with moral values and warnings for women, reminding them to be cautious not to lose their children or defy their husbands.

These tribal songs serve different purposes, and mean different things to different tribes of aborigines of the world.

Earlier in March, I had the privilege of meeting Antares, who was a bandmember of Akar Umbi, a band famous for its indigenous music. A few tracks from their album, "Songs of the Dragon" were used in the Portraits of Perseverance documentary. Singing those songs was none other than a Temuan grandmama, Mak Minah Angong.

According to Aliran.com, Mak Minah’s songs portray the love the Temuan people have for great nature. But the music goes deeper. It is not just about mere love songs to the environment, but to their ancestral land, and to their ancestors who are believed to have lived, and continue to live on in the landscape.

Mak Minah Angong (Credits to Magick River, photography by Peter Lau)

When logging and rock blasting began as part of the Sungai Selangor dam project, the Temuan families living in Pertak and Gerachi had not been properly resettled, many retreating further into the forest, so it seems. And in songs such as "Sungai Makao", Mak Minah's voice is reminiscient of better times where the land was still pristine.

In a way, the songs seem to echo memories of what used to be. 

It will not only be perfect for storytelling-time for the younger Temuans, it will also allow non-Temuan listeners to come to know about the land that is slowly being taken away from them.

The beautiful lullabies stand for the Temuan identity, voicing their intimate relationship with the environment. They represent a tapestry of the Temuans' lives.

Now that trees are being cut and jungles are getting smaller, the Temuans find it more and more difficult to live the 'old ways', even more so now that they have been relocated, and a large part of their ancestral land has been flooded to build the Sungai Selangor dam.

The late Mak Minah on a beach in Batu Ferringhi (Credits to Magick River, photography by Rafique Rashid)

According to Antares, they are beseiged by changes around them. Most of the children in Kampung Pertak - Mak Minah's village - do not finish secondary school as there is a lack of the "studying for certificate" culture at the home front. Girls marry young to become homemakers. Men do low-level odd jobs. When they need money, they go out to find work.  

Many of the villagers are lost. They are trying to pick up modern city culture - its language, music, the way city folk dress and their behavior. By doing so, they are beginning to lose what they used to have. And they don't realize how much they have lost in order to blend into modernity, by wearing a pair of jeans, or by listening to music with a heavy background of the electric guitar and drums, or by eating a slice of pizza given by a local tourist.

Mak Minah and her sister, Indah. (Credits to Magick River, photography by Antares)

Mak Minah's lullabies are no longer sung by the women in her tribe. Only her sister has learned a few lullabies from her. But even so, her sister has no one to sing to because young mothers now put on a tape player for music.

Their music is getting lost in times.

Maybe, just maybe, the world will find room, permanently, for their lullabies.

Someday.

By Junmey

The Temuans' Land

The calm waters of Sungai Selangor.

A trip to Frasers Hill can be a great experience for travelers. Tourists en route there often stop by the sleepy town of Kuala Kubu Bharu for some good Hailam food. Traditional Hailam noodles and Yoot Loy coffee shop’s homemade Kaya on toast are just some of the specialties the town has to offer to the adventurous and hungry.

To get to Frasers, you’d have to pass the great Sungai Selangor dam. It has become an attraction on its own, and the beauty and the breeze makes it easy to see why.

It would’ve been more beautiful if not for the story behind its making.


The large body of water covers what used to be part of the Orang Asli (that is, the Temuans) home. Judging by the size of the lake, it could’ve been home to hundreds of households, and a huge number of flora and fauna. Like so much of the world’s pristine land, it was altered to meet the needs of the urbanizing lifestyle.

We hear so much about “Going Green” in the media these days. Advertisements, documentaries and government movements scream “Save the environment!” Many of these campaigns have been initiated by the higher authorities throughout the decade.

Water flowing into the resevoir in the Sungai Selangor dam. 

Well, in 2002, a big chunk of greenery and the precious ancestral home of the Temuans was flooded to be made into a dam.

I had the privilege of joining the Chern family, who lent a hand to the 'Portraits of Perseverance' project on their visit to the Temuan community. Despite much of their land having been bulldozered over, the village was still very green and the air was just refreshing. Playing host was Antares, a resident of Kampung Pertak. A brilliant storyteller and guide, he took us us to Sungai Pertak, where the villagers’ lives are centred.

The river was just a few minutes away from the houses. We walked on a mud trail made by several pairs of feet making their way back and forth daily, treading carefully so we don’t slip and fall. To say the understated, Sungai Pertak was gorgeous.

A few village girls walked past us, hair wet and looking fresh from a dip in the river. A Temuan mother was washing some clothes, while her little girl waded in the waters.  Antares hopped on the rocks to get to a spot where the river gushed. He sat himself in between the rocks and indulged in a natural back massage by the swift waters. 


I admired the clear water and the backdrop of tall trees. Mysterious sounds from the forest – what were they, birds? Insects? – interrupted the singing river.

Antares sitting by the crystal clear river.

“This beautiful scenery is merely a fraction of the old village,” I reminded myself.

Our host and “ceremonial guardian of the Magick river”, Antares, said that there used to be more trees, and it was greener back then. Walking back to his home from the river, we stopped to look at a big, empty grassfield.

“There used to be a big tree around here many years ago.” He said, pointing at an empty field nearby his house. “They used to call it the Fairy Tree.”  Grinning with what looked like reminiscent pride, Antares said, “People from around the world would come here and say, ‘Hey, that looks like a tree for fairies!’ “

I’d like to think that children were playing by the Fairy Tree. Maybe they spent their day, sitting on its large roots, beneath the shelter of its leaves, playing with imaginary fairies.

It’s a shame no child can do that now.

As we sat on the verandah of Antares' home, I couldn't help but realize how peaceful the village was  -- a few trees scattered here and there around the houses, the calming trail that led to the river, a lush green environment with clean air. Immersed in surrounding nature, one could hardly imagine the chaos in the environment, just outside the village.

Mrs. Chern smiled, "If one were to sit here when the sun sets, in the evening, it is beautiful.”

The future of this beautiful land may look bleak. But for the present, any one who visits Antares should just enjoy the natural beauty as she suggested.

by Junmey

Life by Sungai Pertak

At the foothills of Fraser's Hill is the small town of Kuala Kubu Bharu, where rows and rows of buildings house family food businesses and sundry shops.

“There’s something charming about this place,” I thought to myself as the very kind Mr. and Mrs. Chern and I sat waiting for our food in a small Hailam coffee shop. The sweet Chern family had counted me in on their little food trip before heading up the hills. The quiet and simple KKB lifestyle was certainly a refreshing change from the Kuala Lumpur hustle and bustle just an hour’s drive away.

Further up from this town is a winding trail that leads to the small, green Orang Asli village, Kampung Pertak.

It used to be bigger and a lot greener.

Passing by Sungai Selangor

The Cherns were on a mission to deliver a release form for three songs by the indigenous Orang Asli band, Akar Umbi, from their album “Songs of the Dragon”. These pure and beautiful pieces were used by 'Portraits of Perseverance' in the documentary.

Driving up the hill, we came across a rest stop overlooking the picturesque Sungai Selangor Dam. We joined  families, couples and travel groups who were admiring the lake. Large and quiet, the waters glistened in the sun, with the cool breeze as its company. A stretch of distant mountains and clouds in the sky drew a breathtaking picture.

The vast space where the dam now occupied used to be home to the Temuan tribe.

Driving into the village, we set our eyes upon the modern “rumah papan”, made of concrete. Mr. Chern said many had electricity and running water supply. This was the first time I saw concrete houses with fairly high-tech features in a village. They looked really nice, too! I found it strange that some of them were empty of residents.

A sign to let us know that Kampung Pertak was not far off!

I got to meet Antares, a friend of the Cherns and a resident of Kampung Pertak for the past 20 years.

His wife, Anoora, shyly shook our hands as we walked up the stairs to their home. She and the residents of the village are Temuans, an aboriginal tribe, Orang Asli, with animistic beliefs. "They believe in spirits of the forest, that their lives and the lives of their ancestors are connected to the environment in a spiritual way." Mr. Chern explained as we sat on Antares' verandah, looking out at the serene, green surroundings.

To me, it was a beautiful place. But to the Orang Asli, it was so much more.

“They (the Orang Asli) actually knew that every tree, every rock, every mountain, every river, is an entity that’s got its own story, that it is in fact a manifestation of their ancestors. Their physical bodies became the physical landscape.” Antares said.

“It’s the flesh of their ancestors. “

I wonder how they felt when their ancestral land was bulldozered and cleared out to be made into a dam.

“Orang Asli have the tendency to inhabit a certain biological region for thousands of years. Ten, twenty, thirty thousand years.“ We listened to Antares speak as we took sips from the tea he brewed.

“When you’ve stayed in this area for so many generations, you know that the ground you’re walking on - your great-great-great grandmother was buried here! And out of (the land) where she was buried, this big durian tree grew!” He gestured to the grass. “You have a sense of continuity of life. The tree grows out of the place where your great-great grandmother was buried, so she becomes part of the earth, the earth becomes part of the tree, the tree rots and goes back to being the earth, so the flow itself is sacred!”

That really hit me in my tummy area. It’s a sad, inevitable reality that sometimes, in order for new things to bloom, old tradition and life has to be torn down.

A calming view of the river.

It isn’t just the ancestral land that is dying little by little. In recent years, the Temuan culture has been fading. What sped up this process is the passing on of the older generation of Temuans, like Mak Minah Angong. They were probably the last generation who held on to the memory of their ancestors. During the twenty years of Antares’ stay in Kampung Pertak, he has watched the young villagers grow up and as is the cycle of life, he’s also seen many of the older folks, the generation of storytellers, pass away.

“They started dying two years after I arrived,” Antares said. “Anoora’s uncle was the story-teller. For two years, I had the benefit of befriending him.” (Many of the stories are recorded in Antares’ book, Tanah Tujuh, available on Silverfish.com)

And as these storytellers left forever, it seemed like they took many of the Temuan lullabies and legends along with them. The beautiful tradition is fast dying among the younger people, like Anoora and her son, Ahau. 


According to Antares, the young ones grew up with television as entertainment, “generally the most toxic intrusion that you could have in your home”, in lieu of their ancestors’ traditional songs and stories. The “mediocre programmes” on TV do not feed the villagers with helpful knowledge.

The deterioration of the younger generation is fuelled even more by their poor grasp of English, which has become so important during these times. 


”They were denied the opportunity to actually master English. English is taught in school, but minimally. If they were fluent in English like how they are fluent in Malay, they would have a much bigger range of options in life. They would be able to access – like the rest of us who are English-speaking – information in the whole worldwide web. It gives them a complete spectrum.” Antares said with much passion.

“So, because of their language limitation, and their being subject to the encroachment of so-called modernity,” the young Temuans are not able to compete with the rest of their generation in the city, they are not able to improve their lifestyle. At the same time, they are losing touch with their roots.

A young Temuan man walked past Antares’ house carrying a big bunch of “petai” plants. Mrs. Chern stopped him to ask if he would sell them to her.

”What they do for a living?” Mr. Chern asked.

“Well, the young fellas invariably end up ‘potong rumput’,“ was our host’s reply.

“How about working in plantations?”

Kampung Pertak up ahead.

"No, no, no.” Antares said firmly. 

“But there are other things that they can do but they don't want to do. See, they (cannot) see simple things. I was hoping they’d see immediately why there’re so many people coming every weekend. Why are there people from all over the world coming here? Because it’s beautiful!

“Look at the beautiful river! What is there to stop them from building a few beautiful chalets? Teaching their kids to speak some English, so they can do a small homestay kind of business?” he said, voicing his hopes about his fellow villagers. “By learning how to do that for tourists, they would preserve the beauty of the environment, (and at the same time,) they would become independent owners of their own business. Even the capital involvement is minimal!

“But, I don’t want to initiate it, I want them to initiate it!”

“So what’s stopping them from doing it is their mentality?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“Lack of initiative. Lack of self-esteem." Antares thought for a moment, then shrugged,  "Fear. A lot of fear.“

I guessed he meant that the Orang Asli, who lead such simple lives, are afraid of disapproval from the authorities, maybe even afraid of failure.

“Do they plant vegetables here? “ Mr Chern pointed at the bottom of the houses. “Or they just go to the forest and collect (resources)?”

“The Orang Asli are so relaxed because for thousands of years (it’s been like this) - No food? Go to the backyard, walk ten steps (to the) tapioca tree, harvest a few young leaves – you’ve got ‘pucuk ubi’.” Antares explained. “Go to the river, catch some fish. A gang of kids would go there, 5 or 8 years old. One hour of playing in the river, they’ll get enough fish for lunch.”

At Antares' home. From left: Antares, George (a friend of Antares), Mrs. Chern and Mr. Chern

“So, they’re used to this fact that abundance is all around them and there’s no need to worry about the future. They don’t think about planting because they find it easier to just go to the jungle and get some ‘cemperai’ leaves, some ‘rebung’ (bamboo shoots). They can eat ‘cendawan’ as they know which fungus they can eat. They can eat roots, tapioca, yam. There’re thousands of things to eat from the jungle, as long as it (the jungle) is not destroyed!"

“They know that even tapioca leaves, ikan bilis or a few fried fish – that’s a meal. Or catch ten fish from the river, grab a handful of tapioca leaves – that’s dinner. And they only cook once a day. So, they cook a big pot of rice, they cook the fish and the tapioca leaves. They might have something on the side. They might have some ‘tempoyak’ ( which is durian sambal, fermented durian with chilli and salt) from the last durian season .”

By the time Antares described how delicious the ‘tempoyak’ was, my mouth was watering.

“It’s a nice meal.” Antares nodded. “Everybody is fed. They don’t have to worry so much, not this bunch of people, because they have the forest around them and they have the river.”

Antares walking us to the river in the cool evening.

Evening was fast approaching and the Cherns and I had to make a move. I peered into the sitting room where Anoora lay with a sarong pulled up over her shoulders, watching a Hindi movie that Astro was featuring. Ahau  ( his son) was in his own room, sleeping the afternoon away.

We got into Mr. Chern’s car and started driving out of the village. Along the way, we passed a group of young Temuans who were probably my age or younger. They waved at us strangers with big, white smiles that contrasted their dark skin. What a pleasant send-off!

I couldn’t help but wonder how lost the young Temuans would feel, as their ancestral land is being torn down,  their culture and identity becomes less and less clear each day.

I listen to the lullabies on the Akar Umbi CD. Mak Minah’s voice is beautiful. Also eerily haunting.

Would her recorded voice be all that’s left of the Temuan culture, say, in thirty years to come?

by Junmey

Mak Minah, Uncrowned Queen of the Temuan

In a world where old values, tradition and culture are inevitably being torn down to make way for modernization, a group of people decided to document the beautiful Temuan lullabies, forming a band that would go down in the history of Malaysia's cultural scene. That band is Akar Umbi. And at the core of the band's talents was Minah Agong. Portraits of Perseverance has gotten the permission to use three of the band's songs - songs that had grown to become the hearbeat of the old Temuan tribe and Mak Minah herself. The story of her life, and eventually her death was intertwined with natural resource usage conflicts. Who better to tell that story than Mak Minah's very own bandmate and friend. The man who paved the way for the forming of Akar Umbi: Antares. 

Yes, I am pleased to tell you my story. But as I cannot write things down, I will ask my friend to help. He is among those who knew me well in my last years on this earth. I whisper these words in his mind’s ear, for he is still in the world of the living, while I am already back in the realm of spirit, and happily so.

My bones now lie buried on top of a hill overlooking the saddest sight you can imagine. Majestic hills stripped of trees, mountains blown up to make a dam. I may be dead but my spirit lives on in my songs, and in the sacred (and now badly scarred) landscape I love so dearly.  One day my songs will be heard and they will soften the hardened hearts of the greedy ones who destroy more than they construct. When men’s hearts heal, so will the land.

"Cover of Akar Umbi CD 'Songs of the Dragon' (released August 2002)"

I was born in Pertak, Ulu Selangor, between two world wars, into the Temuan tribe. The identity card issued by the government says I arrived on September 14, 1930, and records my name at birth as Menah Anak Kuntom.  People knew me as Mak Minah because that was my stage name as lead singer with a band called Akar Umbi. Perhaps the most exciting moment of my life was when we performed before 40,000 people at the biggest stadium in Selangor. Afterwards, so many people came and congratulated me. I had a photograph taken with Sharifah Aini and Sahara Yaacob, who were also performing that night. We looked like three queens together!

Anyway, Menah or Minah makes little difference to me, since I can’t spell. Our names keep changing as we change. But once we write anything down, it becomes harder to change. Take my sister’s name: although we have the same father and mother, her name is recorded in her identity card as Indah Anak Merkol, after our  stepfather. My mother’s name was Beresih but all her children called her Mui, which is the Temuan word for Mak or Mother.

  

"Akar Umbi in 1995 rehearsing for 'Out in the Open' festival at Carcosa Seri Negara. For details click here" 

As a child I remember life was carefree and fun. Fish was abundant in the streams, and the forest supplied all our needs, except for luxuries like sugar, salt, and milled rice. Fresh meat was easily available as there were many animals that could be hunted or trapped.  We Orang Asli can eat anything, with or without legs or wings, as long as it’s not poisonous (we even know how to remove the poison from some wild plants so that they become edible). Apart from fish and wild boar, we also eat porcupines, pythons, leaf monkeys, deer, birds, and bamboo rats (whose flesh is very clean and sweet, as they feed only on bamboo shoots). These are all gifts of the Great Spirit That Dwells In Everything.

The only education I received was from my grandmother, who enjoyed telling us stories. 

She explained how human beings were seeded on Tanah Tujuh (which is what we call this physical world) by Mamak and Inak Bongsu, a brother and sister who survived the Great Flood by clinging to the top of a gaharu tree on Gunung Raja. 

My grandmother was full of wonderful tales about the beautiful elven races (Orang Halus) who left the planet for the higher heavens when the Difficult Times began. Some chose to remain, because they had grown to love the earth, but they gradually became invisible to human eyes.

"Minah Angong, Rafique Rashid & Antares (not visible in pic) perform with Anak Dayung at the first Rainforest World Music Festival in Sarawak, August 1998." 

People ask me if Orang Asli have any religion. I always reply that we don’t need religion because our God is not separate from the everyday world in which we live. The Great Spirit That Dwells In Everything takes all forms and speaks to us as the song of the wind in the bamboo grove, or as the neverending gossip of the river. Sometimes it is the distant call of a mist-covered mountain. Other times, it is as close as a sleeping child breathing gently in its mother’s ear.

During my lifetime I saw how people became blinded by ambition and greed. They began to mine the earth for metals and log the forest for wood. With each passing year the land became hotter and the rivers became dirtier, so we could no longer drink the water without boiling it first.  With each passing year we had to walk farther and farther to find some bamboo or catch some fish because people would come into the forest and take out more than they needed. And with each passing year we saw more and more wilderness cleared so that towns could be built. 

"Rafique Rashid, one of the key musicians of Akar Umbi, with the Temuan at Pertak Village."

I enjoyed going to town where many things could be bought, but to do that we had to sell durians, petai, bamboo, cane (manao) and aromatic wood (gaharu) for cash. Yet I could never imagine myself living in a town where it’s always so noisy and hot. Like all Orang Asli, I dearly love the jungle which is our natural home and hunting ground. I would rather die than be forced to live in a town.

When I was 12 the world turned upside down. Planes dropped bombs in the jungle to destroy bridges and railway tracks. We had to hide in caves on the slopes of mountains. For many years my family stayed hidden deep in the forest, for fear that we may be captured or killed by the invaders. During those war years we missed the taste of salt and sugar. We lived in the middle of the Malay Peninsula - far from the sea – and had grown accustomed to flavouring our food with salt bought from the Chinese merchants.  My mother taught me how to make cooking oil from the perah nut.

After the war life became even worse for us. The government put us all in detention camps, surrounded by barbed wire, and guarded by soldiers. They said it was to protect us from the communist guerrillas. Unused to suddenly being confined in a small space so close to town, many of our people became depressed, fell sick, and died. This is how I lost both my parents. 

"Antares playing the flute in an Akar Umbi number."

But I was already an attractive young woman with many admirers. My life stretched ahead of me like a newly laid road, and I had a taste for adventure. I found myself married to a man I hardly knew. At least he could take me away from the confines of the resettlement camp. We ran back to our beloved jungle and built a hut along the river, along with many others who could no longer bear living within a fence.

My first marriage was a tragedy. I was too young to be a dutiful mother. My children died of illness and my husband left me. For a while, I flirted with the idea of becoming a white man’s mistress. Then I met Angong who had recently become the Batin (headman) of Kampong Gerachi. He was a patient man with great wisdom. It was he who taught me the ceremonial songs passed down to him by his ancestors. Angong taught me to be proud of my noble naga (dragon) lineage. Not every family has an animal totem. Only those with some knowledge of jungle medicine (jampi) or who possess magical powers (dukun) have special allies in the animal kingdom. 

I bore Angong five children and greatly missed him when he returned to Pulau Buah, where souls go after they drop their physical bodies (which we call baju, or clothes). When my children grew up and started their own families, I moved to Kampong Pertak to live with my younger sister Indah and her husband Rasid. My elder brothers, Diap and Utat, lived nearby.  My eldest son, Ramsit, took over as Batin of Gerachi.

"Akar Umbi doing a workshop with Scottish group Shooglenifty at RWMF 1999."

It was fated that my life would begin to change in 1992. I met a few people from the big city who happened to be musicians. They heard me singing and decided to record my voice, adding musical instruments to give my traditional sawai (healing) songs a modern sound. The first song we created together was called Burung Meniyun. I was asked to sing it on stage during a performance by a famous dancer named Chandrabhanu who lived in Australia. I was surprised and touched that people in the big city would receive my humble song with such open hearts.  Never before had I sung for so many strangers in such a large hall! Chandrabhanu himself was quite a colourful character, dressed up as some kind of witch doctor with all sorts of strange objects dangling from his body. I found it exciting to meet so many new friends who were delighted to hear my ancient songs. 

It all happened so quickly. One moment I was just an Orang Asli widow gathering firewood and tapioca leaves in the forest and going fishing with my sister. Then suddenly I was on national TV singing for thousands of people in a huge stadium! I shall never forget the pleasure of hearing the loud applause and shaking hands with everybody afterwards. I felt proud to be able to please so many people with my simple songs. For once I could feel that no one was looking down on me, or ignoring me, for being an uneducated Orang Asli. 

Can you imagine how it feels to be recognized by someone in Ulu Langat who had seen my performance on TV?  When I went to the market in town, people came up to me and congratulated me on my performance. But back in Kampong Pertak, I was greeted with a mixture of wholehearted support and suspicion. Some whispered behind my back that I was soon going to be too sombong (proud) to be their friend. That really hurt my heart.

"Minah Angong, diva of the rainforest, wowed the crowd at RWMF 1998 (photo: Wayne Tarman)."

I enjoy singing for people, and my late husband taught me that these songs handed down from our ancestors carry healing power. They are medicine songs. When I sing I can feel my spirit expand like a strong wind blowing through a tree. Naik angin, we call it.  Once I start I must carry on until the wind becomes a breeze and goes quietly on its way. If I don’t let the spirit wind flow (lepas angin) I can get very sick.

My first experience of flying was when Akar Umbi performed in Sarawak at the Rainforest World Music Festival. I had such a grand time and made even more friends. I returned to Sarawak with Akar Umbi the next year, for the last time. At the party after the close of the festival, my newfound friends sang me a rousing Iban farewell. My heart was light and heavy at the same time. Perhaps I knew this was our last meeting on this earth.

Even as I felt the pleasure of being applauded, I could feel the pain of losing our past and future. The dam project would soon destroy Kampong Gerachi and its durian orchards. A man-made lake would fill the Selangor River Valley, drowning a once-beautiful forest, along with our ancestral graves. I could not imagine anyone so foolish as to declare war against the forces of nature.  Did they have no understanding of, or respect for, our deep love of the land? Were they totally unaware that destroying the land would mean the end of our livelihood and future?  We are the land. If the land dies, we die. 




"Minah Angong and Ahau, Antares' son."  

My sister Indah and brothers Diap and Utat felt the same way that I did. We cherished our traditions and would never lose our heart connection to the land, even if we were offered vast amounts of money.  The 
Temuan tribe has lived here for many thousands of years; the hills and valleys and rivers are much, much older than that. Our fruit trees can live for over a hundred years and as long as we keep planting new ones, our great-great-grandchildren will never starve. But if they destroy the wilderness and put our people in housing estates and make us work in factories, our tribe will be disappear within a generation. Our nenek-moyang (ancestors) told us: “When Orang Asli are no longer visible on this earth, the sea will rise, the sky will fall, and everything will perish.”

It all seemed hopeless. My own son, as headman, had signed an agreement with the dam builders and loggers, allowing the destruction to begin.  I tried to talk him out of it, but he silenced me, his own mother.  My sorrow ran deep.  Before it had even started the dam project had split our families apart. 

But there were thousands of voices raised against the dam, and I was glad that we had so many friends, people who knew the true value of the rainforest and fought hard to stop the destruction.  I was interviewed by many reporters and I told them how I felt about seeing our way of life being taken from us.  One reporter asked me: “Don’t you want to see your grandchildren getting a good education, which they can only get when development reaches the rural areas?” I replied: “All those who cut down the trees and make the hills bare, causing landslides and floods, aren’t they educated too? If that’s what being educated means, then we Orang Asli don’t want to be educated!” The reporter had nothing to say to that.

"Mak Minah's gravestone which was placed in the middle of an old tree near Kg Gerachi. The tree had been struck by lightning but somehow survived. Sadly, her firstborn the Batin of Gerachi subsequently chopped down the tree, haunted perhaps by the memory of his mother who had been vehementy opposed to the dam project. The gravestone has since disappeared."

In a way, I’m glad I didn’t live to see the bulldozers and excavators arrive. Three weeks after I performed in Sarawak, I fell ill and surrendered my body to the earth.

It has become part of the sacred landscape of my ancestors. But my spirit is reunited at last with the Great Spirit That Dwells In Everything and I am happy.

© Antares (Kit Leee) 2002

ANTARES

MAGICK RIVER
44000 KUALA KUBU BARU

MALAYSIA

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